


Tumbleweed (Teenlock)

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst Sherlock, Angst and Humor, BAMF John, Comfort, Dark Sebastian, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Humor, Hurt, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Possession, Possessive Moriarty, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Teenlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Holmes has been missing since the age of 9. Mycroft Holmes has been trying to find his brother since the age of 16. Sherlock Brooke can't remember anything from before he was rescued by Jim Moriarty 7 years ago. All John Watson knows is that the Police won't listen to him, and that he's probably going to be late for dinner.</p>
<p>A teenlock fic where John unwittingly finds himself caught up in a dangerous web of espionage, but all he wants is to make sure that the brilliant boy he met at the Police Station is safe. Sherlock meanwhile is certain that there's more to this boy than meets the eye, and through a mutual interest in each other they end up swimming into deeper and darker waters. </p>
<p>Through helping each other, there's no way they'll be helping themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shaving Cream

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is supposed to be a Teenlock fic, but the ages of the characters are slightly squew-if.  
> Sherlock- 16  
> John- 16  
> Mycroft- 23  
> Moriarty- 28

"Yeah but-"

"No, you've wasted enough time today. Your Dad will be here to collect you shortly."

John Watson scowled at the Policeman's retreating back. He was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the middle of the Police Station, surrounded by potted plants of various sizes. Offices were joined on by turquoise doors, which kept swinging open and then shut again as people rushed about, despite the high level of activity, it was incredibly boring.

He'd had it with the Police now. They never listened to him. Who would trust a teenager against a 'respectable' adult? The bloke wasn't even John's real Dad, for Christ's sake. He was just some bloke with an enormous beer belly who had merrily waltzed into his life and proceeded to make it a miserable one.

The man rarely dared to touch John, but it didn't stop him from trying. John knew how to hold his own, though. He was also the only one in the household with an actual job, which was often his bargaining tool.

'Touch Harry and I'll get myself fired', or 'Lay a finger on Mum and when I next get paid I'll give it all to a homeless junkie and give none to you' were both common threats. Of course he didn't want to get fired, but if the prospect of it ensured Harry's safety, then he was willing to risk it. Besides, he'd never actually dump his wages on a drug-addict, instead he'd buy them a sandwich. He'd do something useful. Like donating. John was the primary source of income for them, which is why his threats were listened to.

This time however, John had come home after a particularly tiresome shift where he'd had to explain to a dear old lady with dementia that he wasn't her Grandson at least fifty times (he worked in the café at St Bart's Hospital, and therefore had to deal with some of the patients when they decided to wander), to find his Mum sitting at the kitchen table with a dazzling cut lip. That's when he forgot about the TV session he was going to have that evening and stormed off up to the Police Station.

The thing about police stations though was that they're never dull. Ever. Ridiculously boring at some stages, but it would never take long for something to start up. So while this particular Police station (he'd tried various ones in an attempt to make his voice heard) was in no way quiet to begin with, it was made louder by a sudden bout of shouting. John couldn't help but be drawn out of his sulky stupor at the sound of loud voices echoing around the room.

"The Barber! Are you completely incompetent?"

John smirked. Apparently someone wasn't having a good day, either.

"Oh what? So you're saying that Mr Perkins just happened to get shaving cream on his foot?"

John raised an eyebrow at the ground. He'd managed to get himself a bit messy with shaving cream before now. It seemed fairly plausible that someone should get it on their foot. 

"The guy had a beard!"

Okay. What was the guy doing with shaving cream if he had a beard? Unless he was planning on shaving it off...

"It's November! It's Movember! That charity thing! It's the 19th! Why would he shave it off before the month is up? The Barber killed him, it's obvious!"

John listened intently. Smirking at his shoes now. The guy was passionate, he'd give him that. Only, shouting never worked for him. Maybe this guy would prevail where he couldn't.

"Someone get him out of here!" Evidently not. Another voice yelled, and John turned his neck just in time to see a tall figure being dragged across the room by a burly policeman. He quickly averted his eyes as the figure was plonked down next to him.

"I'm calling your mother. I think I know her number off by heart now. Stay where you are."

The figure didn't reply, only sank down lower in his chair, sticking out his legs in what John thought was a meagre attempt to trip someone up. He decided that now would be a good time to wipe the smile off of his face and engage in some actual interaction, especially with someone who apparently shared the same views as him of the police at the moment.

"Shouting doesn't work you know, tried it myself." It was a poor attempt, John had to admit. Better than sitting in silence though.

"What would you know?"

John allowed himself another glance at the guy sitting next to him. He was tall; he'd spotted that before. But now he saw that he was incredibly lanky and skinny. He had a thick layer of ebony locks that curled lazily, but swirled with apparent precision on top his head. He looked about 16, with piercing eyes that darted from person to person in the room. He was pulling at a thread dangling from his sleeve while his feet tapped the floor as though they were tap dancing.

"Trust me, I find myself in here a lot."

The guy turned to look at him. 

"You don't seem the criminal type." He said, curiously. John chuckled.

"I'm not, but my Dad is. Or close to it, at any rate. Just can't convince this lot-" He gestured at everyone in the room "to believe me."

The guy straightened up and looked at him more tentatively.

"Why won't they believe you?" He was generally interested, and John was shocked. No one had ever listened to him before.

"I dunno. He's got them all convinced that I'm a nutter or something. I generally have no idea." John suddenly looked down, worried that he was talking about himself too much. That was always a problem. He could be incredibly vocal, but the worry that he was annoying people had always been a far greater issue for him. Meaning that most of the time he kept to himself.

He wasn't a nutter though. He was an A-B student in Biology, and was a strong player in his school's rugby team. Not a nutter.

"I'm... Sorry." The guy said. "Having a step-dad who abuses your mother and sister must be tough. He abuses you too, verbal abuse still counts. People often don't though."

John stared, astonished.

"How..?"

"Please." The guy said, rolling his eyes and continuing pulling at the thread. John felt like he'd insulted him somehow.

He was about to speak again, but was cut off by a the policeman striding back over towards them.

"Mr Brooke, your mother is here for you. Please make this the last time we see you here."

'Mr Brooke' stood up, straightening his jeans and hoody in the process.

"See you around." He said to John, so casually it was like they'd bumped into each other at a cafe. He turned towards the policeman and strode off in the other direction towards his mother, who was scowling as her son drew closer. She opened her mouth and John saw her jaw moving, but couldn't quite make out what was being said.

John went back to looking at his shoes, smirking at them. Suddenly, the imminent argument with his step-dad seemed very, very, small.

\---

The car journey was a tense one. Made only tenser by his absolute resoluteness not to cower at the man. From the moment he'd sat down, he had locked his eyes onto the road and was refusing to look away, which was very difficult seeing as how he was sitting in the back. He didn't even flinch as they powered over a particularly nasty speed bump.

"What were you doing at the police station?"

He shut his eyes to allow himself to roll them. He couldn't roll his eyes in front of him. If that ever happened, if he ever showed the slightest sign of being disobedient... Life wouldn't be running as smoothly as it could have been.

"Working." He replied shortly. The man sitting next to him laughed.

"Working? What on Earth for?"

They passed over a bridge that led to a simplistic housing estate. The buildings were all the same, yet it didn't seem unpleasant. A somewhat nice neighbourhood, in fact. He couldn't help but compare it to where he was going. There was such a contrast. Little old ladies dithered around clutching watering cans, cooing at babies in prams who were pushed along by their mothers down the pavement. Children rode their bikes happily up and down the street without a care in the world. It was like an alternative universe to the one he was living in.

Yet, beneath the bridge is where the troll dwells. That's where he'd been found. Drugged up and asleep in a puddle. Or so he'd been told. In actual fact he hadn't the slightest idea of how he'd wound up there. He questioned everything, because he couldn't remember a thing. It made him detest himself.

All he remembered was waking up, with an incredibly sore head. He remembered this angel, coaxing him off the drugs and providing him with food (not that he ate much of it), shelter, and warmth. He'd been told that he'd been in a bad way. He certainly had the wounds to prove it. His shoulder supported a spectacular scar from where he'd had a little accident with a bullet. Apparently, this certain injury had occurred on the eve of him being picked up. He had no recollection of a gun, or even the pain. This had all happened five years ago, when he was eleven.

From that point onwards, he'd been in his care.

"What's wrong, hun?" The man next to him asked, his voice soft and delicate, matching the hand that had now came to rest on his knee. The urge to flinch or to smack the hand away was overwhelming. He resisted the temptation.

"... Why don't I remember anything?" He asked, gently coaxing the soft hand away from his leg.

"What do you mean?"

He clenched his eyes shut again, and the hand that was now in the space between them curled up into a ball.

"I don't remember anything. Anything at all. Surely I must remember something?" He opened his eyes again and turned to look at the man sitting next to him. The smile was warm, but the eyes were cold. They were like black-holes, ready to suck a person in and never let them out again. They sent shivers along his spine.

"We've talked about this." With each syllable the voice changed. The calm and relaxing one was quickly replaced with one of anger. One that he usually associated with hateful things. Hurtful things. "And we're not talking about it again. Do you understand me? Sherlock? If I've heard that you've breathed a word to the police about any of this... About me. There's only so many times I can deal with you, you know. I could very easily put you back were I found you, do you understand? And I don't want to do that. You don't want to go back. You'd be wasted, in all sense of the word. Now, answer my original question. Why were you at the police station?"

Sherlock breathed.

"They'd arrested Mr Brist for the murder of Mr Perkins, but they'd got it wrong. They always do. It was Mr Yates who had actually killed him."

There was no point in lying. None at all. The man could read his lies like a book. The overall atmosphere in the car suddenly became relaxed, for everyone except Sherlock, that is. 

"Aw baby. You're always such a thoughtful little lamb. Trying to bring justice, you're like a little super hero."

Sherlock flinched as the hug came swooping down on him like an eagle. It wasn't a warm embrace. The cold skin made contact with his own, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if giving him a warning. Sherlock prayed to an unknown entity for the constricting hug to be over, and whoever he was praying to must have listened, because a moment later he felt himself relaxing as the talons drew away.

"Promise me you'll never run off again, alright? I can't have you dashing about all over London. It's a dangerous world out there, Sherlock. You don't know the half of it. Why would you? You're so dainty, so fragile to the real world. Leave the big-boy stuff to us in the future, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. There was no point in bickering. But something was clawing at the back of his mind, scratching at some new found information. He tucked it away for the time being, promising to analyse it properly when he got back.


	2. Apron

At first he thought he was being stabbed, because the noise was sharp and piercing. Who stabs someone with a blunt instrument? And he supposed that if he was in fact being stabbed the implement that it was conducted with must have been able to pierce the skin in order for him to actually be stabbed, otherwise it would just be a rather hard poke.

However, as he regained consciousness it occurred to him that he wasn't being stabbed at all. Physically at least. The alarm clock on the other hand was slicing his ear drums to shreds, almost giving him a heart attack when it first began its beeping tirade.

He groaned, after realising what the alarm clock meant. His leg stretched itself without command, and at the joint of his knee it ended up hanging loosely off the bed. The rest of him meanwhile continued to lay in the entanglement of duvet, refusing to move with eyes shut tight.

"Master Brooke! Get up!"

Someone knocked hard on the bedroom door, and Sherlock grunted something in reply that even he couldn't quite decipher. The voice seemed satisfied though, as the knocking didn't continue. The alarm didn't back down as easily.

Without opening his eyes, he stuck out his arm and began hitting the oak bedside-table in a futile attempt to switch the alarm off and find his phone, which had also decided to start making noises at him.

Once the alarm was silenced (it now lay broken on the other side of the room. Five beeps had proven to be five too many, and as a result Sherlock had thrown the unsavoury machine at the wall. Something that he now realised was a bad idea, because a- it had made him sit up and actually use some muscles, and b- this was his second alarm clock within this calendar month), he peeled his eyes open and snatched the phone from the side. Distinctly pissed off now that he'd had to wake up at all. The texts didn't help.

Don't come into the lounge at any point today. It's a bit messy. x

Be awake for 06:30am. We've got a big day ahead of us! x

Sherlock, stop putting fingers in the fridge. It's disgusting. x

Sherlock scowled as he thumbed through each one. He was often banned from going into certain rooms of his own home. Usually it meant that Jim had something big on with work. One day Jim had finally decided that Sherlock got in the way too much, therefore meaning that whenever there was something important going on, Sherlock was completely and utterly barred, then allowed in again if he was needed. But all of Jim's associates seemed to respect him, regardless of how 'annoying' Jim always made him out to be.

The second message made him growl. Last night was his first night of sleeping in roughly 72 hours. Of course he wasn't allowed to catch up on his sleep. Jim had done that on purpose. The first night he was about to go to sleep, but the urge to meddle with the police had become too strong, and that's how he found himself being dragged away from a crime scene at 5:00am by a couple of Jim's henchmen. Since that point, he'd been darting around London tracking down the murderer, made more difficult by the constant attempt to avoid a couple of blokes who Jim had told to tail him. That's how he eventually found himself in the police station. The woman who had picked him up was one of the maids.

He merely shrugged at the last one. He needed those fingers, and they needed to be kept somewhere. The fridge was the most convenient spot. Plus, when he left a few toes before one of the servants threw up, which Sherlock thought was hysterical. Jim pretended not to be amused, but really Sherlock knew that he was.

Deciding that he should get up, Sherlock padded across the room and pulled his dressing gown off of a hook. He wrapped it around himself, rubbing his eyes blearily and making a move towards the door.

"No, no, no, Sir." A very panicky voice came charging at him along the corridor (he lived in a big house). "Go back into your room and have a shower, there'll be a suit waiting for you to get changed into. Mr Moriarty wants you presentable for today." The voice came level with him now, bringing a face with it. She was the strictest servant to ever exist. Sherlock always thought that servants were supposed to do what you told them to do, but in this place he was the one with the orders.

Too tired to reply, Sherlock simply spun on his heel and stomped back into his bedroom. He liked his room, it was the one place that he was never told not to go. Usually because Jim would never carry out any sort of business in there; it was always untidy, and had a faint burning smell from one too many singed pieces of furniture. 

The king-sized bed was rarely in use, but it acted well when needed. He also had a large oak desk that had just about enough room for a laptop, but the rest was littered with mugs of half-drank cups of tea and various sheets of paper. The walls were a dark green, although it was plastered with photographs and string that Sherlock had forgotten the colour entirely. It was plain but simple. He'd made it his own. Jim often referred to it as 'Error'. At first Sherlock thought he was being insulting, but it later transpired that Error meant Maze in Latin, and as Sherlock navigated his way around the turrets of books he could see what Jim meant.

After his shower, he found himself staring at the suit that had been laid on his freshly-made bed. Using his towel to dry his hair as much as he could be bothered, he lazily got himself dressed. He then checked his phone to see what the weather would be like (it didn't occur to him to look out of the window, but then again, curtains hadn't been open for at least seven months), and on finding that it would be cold he also grabbed his scarf and much treasured Belstaff coat. He then made his descent down stairs.

“You took your time.” The same grumpy maid as before snapped, and Sherlock now remembered her name too. It was Mrs Green. An inspirational name for an inspirational person. Him and Jim often joked that the name was so given because the woman was in actual fact an alien. It sounded petty, but when Sherlock had first arrived in Jim's care, the woman had been laying into Sherlock hard when he'd come down stairs one morning wearing odd-socks. The nine year old had been slightly nervous anyway (he'd only been there a week), and so Jim had cheered him up, by telling him that she was an alien and had fled from her home planet after the dreaded odd-sock monsters invaded. Sherlock had liked that story a lot, especially as it involved a clever character with black hair who had ultimately chased her onto the space ship at the end and got rid of her. The nine year old in him certainly found it appealing. 

“Well who else’s time was I going to take?” He retorted, striding passed the woman completely and out through the front door, which was being held open for him by one of Jim's 'Workers'. 

“What on Earth Mr Moriarty was thinking when he took you in is a mystery to me, Sherlock. You've been nothing but a sarcastic, ungrateful little shit!” She shouted, and Sherlock smirked, waving back at her as a way of saying goodbye. 

Jim wasn't waiting for him in the car when he arrived, and so Sherlock found himself sitting in the back of a car, alone. This had happened on numerous occasions before. Jim had evidently needed to get him out of the way for today, and so Sherlock was probably on the way to somewhere he'd detest. He stared bitterly out of the window, his head filling up with schemes and tasks for him to do today. First however, he needed to escape.

He hated betraying Jim though. The man was great, and a complete mastermind. Sherlock would be lying if he said that he didn't look up to him. He was a genius. Sherlock knew it. While he wasn't allowed to know what Jim did (“All in good time, hun.” Jim would say whenever Sherlock asked), but whatever it was, Sherlock knew that he excelled at it. He was good at his job, and had even taken him in from whatever hell-hole he'd left behind. In Sherlock's mind, Jim Moriarty was a Saint. A Saint that Sherlock kept managing to piss off. 

When the car eventually rolled up outside the library, Sherlock saw his opportunity. He'd be damned if Jim thought he'd be spending the day in a God forsaken library. So once he'd made sure that the driver had departed, he slipped from the library building and hastened towards one of his favourite places.

\--

When one has a bruise, it is impossible to resist the urge to poke it. So when John spotted the purpling monster under his left eye while passing a large collection of stainless steel kitchenware, the bruise just had to have a finger jabbed into it to see how much it hurt. Which it did. After poking the beast a few more times, John was more or less satisfied that it hurt when prodded, and so he therefore decided to continue with the washing up.

He didn't really mind about the punch so much. It was manageable, and he could handle it. Certainly, the second anyone quizzed him about it, he informed them that he'd merely lost his balance and walked into a street lamp. Something that he'd actually done before on many an occasion, so it wasn't a difficult lie to tell.

"Hi John."

John jumped as a bright voice cut over the sound of the running water pouring from the tap. He recognised it immediately as Molly Hooper.

"Oh, hi, Molly." He smiled, looking up from the plate he was currently washing.

Molly Hooper also had a temporary job at St Bart's. She worked in the Pathology department, sorting out eyeballs and fingers and all sorts of disgusting things that people liked to dissect. John would have killed for an actual substantial job like the one that Molly had (although she did had a serious devotion for chemistry and biology, John found suspected that she'd only managed to get the job because her Uncle worked as a Doctor there, and not because of her complete devotion to everything that she did).

"What happened to your eye?!" Molly half shouted, slightly aghast at the sight of the thing under his eye.

"Walked into a street lamp." John shrugged, but Molly frowned and leaned towards his ear. She always knew.

"I know it's not my place to say anything..."

"... I have a feeling you're going to anyway."

"Please talk to the Police, John. They'll help you." She whispered. It was very rare that she'd come out of her shell, so much so that whenever she spoke it was barely audible anyway. The rules only changed for those who she trusted and cared for, or if she was angry.

"They won't listen to me." John muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose on his sleeve and not holding back any resentments he had with them in his voice.

Molly noticed this, and smiled widely.

"Cheer up. Things are rubbish right now but they'll get better. They always do." She offered, just as a man came and stood behind her, evidently thinking that she was in the queue. John nodded towards the man behind her and Molly quickly scuttled away and perched herself at a table.

The guy who just bought three cups of very strong, very black coffee made John feel like he'd just walked into the set of a Mafia film. He was big, in height and muscle; tattoos could be seen wriggling up from under his collar and across his neck. The hands that had clasped themselves around the cups were littered with scarring that matched his face, with a long, drawn out gash disappearing under his sleeve.

"That'll be £3.90, please." John said lightly, tapping into the counter. The bloke rummaged around in his pocket and withdrew a handful of change. It was painful watching him count each individual coin. By the time the man had finished counting under his breath, John had already worked out that he was 40p short.

"Oi, Seb!" The man called out across the café. "You got any change?"

Another man muttered something to the guy sitting next to him, who chortled, and then proceeded to make his way to the counter.

He was also tall. Not quite as tall as Mr Tattoo, but still very tall. He towered over John at least, although John didn't consider this much of an achievement. There were no tattoos that flanked his body (none that John could see, anyway), and while the other guy looked formidable in his suit, this new one looked strangely good, like he belonged at a red carpet premiere, or running around shooting bad guys as a swanky secret agent.

"40p" Mr Tattoo grunted, holding out his fist full of change so that the guy who John worked out to be called 'Seb' could see. He pulled out his wallet and fished around for a minute, until withdrawing his hand and pulling out a 50p coin.

"Keep the change."

When he spoke, John expected it to be with the same delicacy that Mr Tattoo had, so he was rather taken aback by the clearly upperclass accent. Definitely a secret agent bloke.

"Thanks."

The two men turned and settled themselves back down at the table. John watched them closely. What could three guys like that be doing in a hospital? Maybe one of their mates had gotten into a fight- that wouldn't surprise John in the least. Molly reappeared quite quickly after they left.

"So what're you up to today?" John quizzed, going back to the washing up which he'd abandoned.

"Not a lot. But you'll probably have ended your shift by the time I get out, so don't wait for me."

John and Molly made it a ritual to meet each other after work, and then they'd go somewhere. It was usually to Molly's house, her Grandma's, or just into another café. John liked it because he liked Molly's company, but also because it got him out of the house for a while longer.

"Okay." John nodded, trying to disguise that he was a bit put-out by the fact that he'd have to find other means of procrastinating.

"We'll meet up next Monday?" She said, hopefulness flowing through her voice.

"Yeah, sure." John grinned, and Molly turned around and made her way passed the group of surly men and towards at set of double doors. She turned around, smiled apologetically, and then vanished through them.

John was left alone for no longer than two minutes when something was lobbed at his head. The washing up was clearly never going to get done.

"What the-"

"Shhhhhh!"

John stopped talking and covered his hand with his mouth (forgetting that it was covered with bubbles, and he gagged as the washing-up liquid water came into contact with his tastebuds), as the crisp-thrower slid himself over the counter, and then crouched down on the floor behind the sink. It was the same guy John had met in the Police Station yesterday.

"I need your apron." The guy said shortly. John was desperately trying to remember his name. It was something like River...

"My what?"

"Don't make me say it again."

He had no idea why, but John found himself undoing the knot behind his back and pulling the apron off over his head. He then thrust it into the teenager's hand. The guy then put the apron on and stood up sharply, but still crouching slightly. John was intrigued.

"Are you hiding from those blokes?" John queried, peering over the sandwich counter to get a better look at what the guy was looking at.

"What on Earth gave you that idea?" He drawled, pulling a phone from his pocket and tapping away madly at it.

"Why?"

"Do you always ask this many questions?"

John thought for a moment.

"Yes." The guy rolled his eyes, and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Then yes, I am, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't let them know I was here." He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the side and pulled them over his slender hands. John neither agreed nor disagreed to the request.

The guy then darted out from behind the counter, and John noticed in slight awe that he'd taken the notebook and pen that John could have sworn was stashed in his pocket, and was now waltzing across the café towards a sobbing couple who had just walked through the door. John watched as he spoke to them, then disappeared through the double doors that Molly had departed through earlier. The couple looked slightly confused, but a second later the woman caught the apron that had been thrown back through the door. She then walked across the café towards John, clutching the apron in her hands.

"He told me to give you this?" She said, slightly confused as she handed over the apron that John took gladly off her.

"Thanks." He pulled it back over his head and fastened it; the woman returned to the man and they left through the doors that the mystery-man had come through. John was a bit confused.

A few minutes later, the scraping of chairs on floor could be heard as the three men stood up.

“He's obviously not here. That little shit could be anywhere.” Mr Tattoo said, stretching.

“We'll find him. He knew what he was doing, sending him to the library. He just wants to see what he does. It's not fair to the kid, if you ask me.” The one who hadn't come to the till spoke now, John decided to call him Mr Third. 

“He has his reasons- besides, the kid doesn't know anything. Have we got what we came for?” 

John raised his eyebrow at the plate he was now rinsing. They clearly hadn't got what they came for, the guy had avoided their detection.

“Yes. Now keep your voices down.” The one who John remembered as being called 'Seb' growled, and the other two shut up.

John was left staring after them as they left, but his mind was on the guy who'd stolen his apron.


	3. Notebook

Sherlock was pissed off. Really pissed off. All he had wanted to do was go to Bart's, maybe conduct an experiment or two, say hi to Molly (who was one of the few people he could tolerate), and then return to the library so that he could rearrange the books and in doing so annoy one of the miserable librarians.

That was all he wanted. He didn't care for the fact that Jim was having him followed. He didn't even know if Jim knew about Molly, what would he say if he found out that it was Molly who was usually helping him out when he decided to run off? That she was the reason Jim would go into the fridge and find a severed finger leering at him? And as if he'd actually set Sebastian on him too! Sebastian was practically his Uncle, for God's sake.

“The Police didn't listen to me again.” Sherlock said. He was pacing up and down the laboratory while Molly sat on a stool and listened. He'd grown accustomed to venting at Molly- she was a good listener. She just nodded at his statement, which prompted Sherlock to continue.

“Then they went a phoned Mrs Green, again. Jim was furious. It's hardly my fault that they're all incompetent though-” His arms had just thrown themselves into the air as if he were on a roller-coaster, when the door creaked opened and a new figure stepped inside.

“John! Hi!” Molly beamed, climbing off the stool and dashing over to the lad who stood in the doorway. Sherlock frowned. This guy seemed to be everywhere right now.

“Heyya, I got let off early so I thought I'd come see how you were doing.” He explained, and then he spotted Sherlock.

“Urm, thanks for my apron.” His voice suddenly turned, from a happy chatter it switched into a quiet murmur, and he looked at the floor. Sherlock felt slightly bad for him, remembering what he had deduced the previous day, also that he'd thrown a packet of crisps at his head, and then proceeded to steal his apron and notebook. Which was now resting on the table.

“Oh. No problem.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. Molly eyed them both carefully.

“Do you two know each other?” She asked, looking quizzically between the two.

“Ah, no. I bumped into... John?” Molly nodded to confirm that he'd got his name right. “At the Police station yesterday, and in the cafe just I threw some crisps at him and stole his apron.”

“And my notebook.” John muttered, as if to make sure that Sherlock remembered that he was still in possession of it.

“And his notebook.” Sherlock agreed, nodding slightly at the floor. Why was this so awkward?

There was a horrible, unnatural silence lingering over the three of them now, and it was apparently unbearable for Molly too, because she then, very timidly, left. John had been the ice breaker yesterday, so Sherlock decided that it was his turn today.

“How's your Mum's lip?” He asked, and John looked up.

“How's...?”

Sherlock strode across the room and picked up John's notebook. He then skimmed through the pages until he found the one he was looking for.

“When I saw you yesterday you didn't have a bruise, and today you do. Someone has given you that bruise recently then, very recently. Now yesterday I said that your father physically abuses your mother and sister, but not you, so something must have happened in order to provoke him into punching you in the face. Your sister wasn't there when you got home last night, and you haven't seen her since before the Police station yesterday. I know that because yesterday you smelt strongly of two different scents of perfume. One being _Ashley_ , a brand particularly favoured among teenage girls. The other was _Tranquilla Dominae_ , which is a more middle-aged women brand. However, today _Ashley_ is missing, supporting the idea that you haven't seen your sister recently, because _Tranquilla Dominae_ is over powering it somewhat. Therefore meaning that it was your mother who was attacked. As for the cut lip, you wrote it down here.” Sherlock held out John's notebook for him to see, where sure enough John had scribbled:

' _Find out about how to deal with a cut lip._ '

Sherlock watched as John gathered all of the information.

“That was brilliant.” John looked from the notebook and at Sherlock, who hadn't realised that he was holding his breath in anticipation for John's reaction. “Bit scary that you know so much about women's perfume, mind. But that was seriously brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked.

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do! I didn't even realise that I stank of perfume that badly-”

“It's hardly noticeable.” Sherlock put in, but John ignored him.

“- and with the cut lip thing too, I mean obviously you only knew about that because you stole the notebook off me- which I want that back, by the way- but with the perfume and then putting it all together... That was incredible!”

Sherlock was astounded that John was astounded. Within a few seconds the teenager's manner had completely changed. He went from a shyness that could rival Molly, to extreme excitement. He'd done exactly the same thing yesterday too, Sherlock noticed. Only the opposite way around.

“So, you're not going to get angry at me or anything? Only Jim said that I had to stop doing that to people after it caused a few problems with some of his clients...” Sherlock's voice trailed away, remembering only too well the time when the man who Jim was talking to was simply bursting with unexplainable deductions. He'd finally gotten on to the part about him being tangled up in a murder business when Jim had had Sebastian drag Sherlock away. The events that followed weren't good, and he quickly learnt that deductions weren't good unless specifically asked for.

“... No. Why would I punch you? Who's Jim? Why did it cause problems with his clients?” John was babbling, and Sherlock was smiling slightly.

“You really do ask a lot of questions, don't you?” He smirked.

“Yes.” John replied shortly, and continued jabbering. “What's your name?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Brooke.” Sherlock supplied, sticking his hand out and allowing John to shake it.

“I'm John Watson.” He grinned in return.

–

Later that evening the pair found themselves sitting in the library that Sherlock had abandoned earlier. The idea had been Sherlock's. He estimated that he still had a couple of hours before being picked up, and it was evident that John was in no rush to get back to his, so they compromised. Ambling slowly from St Bart's, until they reached the library. A walk that should have taken twenty minutes managed to somehow stretch out to an hour, and each person was holding the other responsible for their tardiness. Sherlock wanting to dash about as quickly as possible, and John wanting to too, but neither wanted to rush the other.

Once they eventually reached the library, Sherlock bought them both tea (he quickly realised that John didn't have the money to spend on overly-priced drinks), and they were now squashed into beanbags in a quiet corner amongst the section on spiritual-cleansing books, something that Sherlock in particular was enjoying taking the mic out of. He happily explained to John how he thought that it was all a load of codswallop, and there was no way of cleaning a soul. Cleaning requires soap, as he told John, and it was therefore impossible to clean something that wasn't there. You can't clean an oven by being nice to it. John didn't mention the fact that his Mum was a strong believer in souls and what makes a good one.

John was having a relatively pleasant time though, despite Sherlock sort of insulting his mother. He'd found something to do with himself at least, what with being quite blown away by Sherlock's mesmerising skill. Sherlock explained to John that there was nothing really that John could do for his mother's lip, except suggesting that she eat an ice-lolly should it start swelling even more, and to keep the wound clean to avoid infection. John had taken his advice and absorbed it.

“So tell me a bit more about yourself. I'm not a mindreader like you.” John said, taking a sip of his tea and sinking down further into the beanbag.

“I'm not a mindreader.” Sherlock corrected him. “I observe, and then I make deductions based on that.” John nodded and grinned, absolutely fascinated.

“Yeah but you're still clever. Do you speak any languages? How many languages do you speak?” John asked eagerly, Sherlock sighed and ran his hand through his.

“Urgh... English, German, French, I can read Latin... I'm learning Russian... And I know a bit of Italian, but I'm not fluent by any means. Most languages are connected to one another though in some way, so if you know a few it's not difficult to understand the basics of another language.” Sherlock explained.

“Wow. I'm learning German at school but I'm rubbish at it. A forced option. But they said if I didn't do a language then I couldn't be on the rugby team.”

It was nice, just the pair of them talking, hiding from the librarian in the secluded corner while they sipped on the drinks that they weren't technically allowed to take out of the library cafe. The buzzing of Sherlock's phone brought them back to reality, however.

"I've got to go." Sherlock said, reading the message and feeling his stomach drop. He was in shit. Deep, deep, shit. If Jim put two 'kisses' at the end of a text, then he was in trouble. That was a rule he abided by, although as of yet he'd never received a 3-kiss text, and had no desire to find out what one of them entailed. He peeled himself away from the beanbag and straightened out his suit. He realised that the only reason he'd been told to wear a suit in the first place was because Jim knew it would make him get out of the house quicker.

"It's been a pleasure, John." He said, and John nodded, also standing up. The two of them walked together through the library until they were standing in the bitterness of the November air, their breath coming out in pearly white wisps before their eyes. It was freezing. The car wasn't already waiting for Sherlock, so he kicked his ankles together in a desperate attempt to keep warm. John had said he'd wait with him, despite Sherlock's protests.

Eventually, John's own phone started making noises at him.

"Shit... That's me. I better go." John said, shoving the phone back into his pocket and turning to face Sherlock. "See you around?" Sherlock nodded. He'd already memorised John's number, although whether John knew that or not he didn't know. John then turned around and starting shoving his way through the jammed London street. The car rolled up.

Sherlock stepped forward and opened the car door, before sinking into the beautiful leather seat. It was hard to believe that this was the same seat that he'd been sat in the day before.

"Did you have a nice time at the hospital?" Sherlock jumped out of his skin as the voice laden with a heavy Irish accent spoke to him. "Aw bless you... I made you jump." Jim laughed and Sherlock smiled guiltily.

"It was alright." Of course they knew he was at St Bart's. He was always being tracked. He supposed that Sebastian had had no part of whatever Jim was doing and decided to assist in Sherlock-hunting. The prospect of several grown men following him everywhere made him feel sick.

"Who was the boy, then?" Jim asked.  
"Just a mate." Sherlock shrugged. He didn't want to draw too much attention to John. Jim laughed again.

"Where're we going?" Sherlock asked, trying to change the subject. As long as Jim had known him, Sherlock hadn't had anyone who he could call a friend. Jim knew nothing about Molly, and Sherlock had also now decided that he would prefer that Jim knew nothing about John, either.  
"Dinner party. Don't worry-" Jim cooed, seeing Sherlock's panicked expression "I won't be needing you too much.”

Sherlock sighed. He was forever being dragged to events with Jim, ones that he would rather not attend. Jim didn't want him there, Sherlock knew it. But he needed him. He needed him to sniff out the rats, he needed Sherlock to tell him a person's weaknesses. Those were the few times that Sherlock was ever allowed to make any deductions, and they were only allowed to be told to Jim.

“Right. Who is it tonight?” He asked, looking at his watch in a vain attempt not to look at Jim. Although he wasn't showing any signs just yet, Sherlock was still fully aware of the two kisses he'd received. Despite the pleasant pretence, Jim was still obviously annoyed at him- for reasons that he didn't know.

“Bloke named Mr Jones. I want to know everything, Sherlock. Not just the little bits. I want to know what will make him crumble.” Jim's voice jumped several octaves as he said crumble, and the harshness of it made Sherlock's ears shrivel.

He wasn't quite sure of when it happened, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that he was scared of Jim. Sherlock nodded, looking out of the window at the London streets rolling by.

–

When John returned home, he was greeted with an empty house, which didn't bother him in the slightest. He made himself some tea, and decided that he needed a shower. His main motivation being an attempt to get rid of the perfume that Sherlock had so easily identified on him, but as he entered the bathroom he was forced to do a double take. He wasn't alone in the house. Harry was sitting on the edge of the bath with a wet cloth pressed against her face.

"Harry? Oh Jesus. Are you okay?" John rushed over, and Harry nodded meekly.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just a little cut." She assured him, wincing as she withdrew the flannel. John didn't believe her.

"Where is he?" John asked, taking the flannel off her and fetching a new, freshly rinsed one. She gladly accepted it.

"Dunno. Stormed off in a huff, old git."

John sighed, taking her hand and readjusting the newly applied flannel so that it covered more of the cut than before.

“Will you be alright for a few minutes?” He asked, and Harry rolled her eyes and nodded, as John left her in the bathroom and made his way down stairs towards the kitchen. His eyes fell on a growing pile of letters, and his stomach clenched.

Nothing in this house was private to him. He always had to know everything, otherwise he would worry over their financial state. So it wasn't exactly surprising that John now found himself opening and pouring over the letters. Most were bills, a few were even addressed to him regarding various sixth-forms and colleges, something that he hadn't even considered yet. But then a different type of envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to his Dad. He was about to rip it open, but found it had already been slit at the top. Carefully, he slid it out of the envelope and began to read.

_Cher Mr Jones,_   
_Nous avons reçu l'intelligence qu'il ya une taupe au sein de votre cercle actuelle. Se il vous plaît retirer toute trace de M avant qu'ils ne découvrent l'opération en cours. Nous nous rencontrerons au 'The Daint' à 19 heures._   
_Vôtre,_   
_SM_

John flipped the letter upside down, but nothing else was written. It was a waste of his time, trying to read it in the first place. He couldn't read French, after all. But he did know that it was French, so he considered that an achievement at any rate. His phone buzzed.

_I'm bored. - SB_

–

Sherlock twirled the phone around in his hand before shoving it back into his pocket. Around him, people chatted aimlessly. Jim had ditched him and had started chatting to a woman in a dazzling red dress. He was so bored. A few moments later, his phone sounded over the mundane talking.

_Guessing 'SB' means Sherlock Brooke? Did you say that you could speak French?_

Sherlock began tapping away his reply.

_Yes to both._

It didn't take long for John's message to come through.

_Great. Can you translate something for me please? My data has run out, I can't use an online translator._

Sherlock replied with 'Sure', and it didn't take long for a picture to appear on his home screen. He pinched the screen and zoomed in. Something inside him was being crushed as he read it. Rather than texting back, he escaped onto the balcony of the building where the polluted London air filled his lungs. He then pressed call.

“John?”

“Bloody hell, that was quick.” John said on the other end.

“Who's Mr Jones?” Sherlock asked, tapping his fingers across the painted-white rail that prevented people from falling off.

“He's my Dad.” John replied shortly, and Sherlock's insides started to do something else that he wasn't quite sure of. “Harry and I refused to take his name when Mum and him got married. Sherlock, what's going on?”

“What does he look like?”

“What?”

“Your Dad, what does he look like?” Sherlock repeated, and John sighed before replying.

“Urgh... I dunno. Stubble, looks a bit like a potato. Around 6ft 2, so he dwarfs me... Always looks like he might explode.” John offered. It didn't help Sherlock.

“I mean any distinguishing features? Tattoos? Scars?” Sherlock snapped, he had turned around and was now scanning the crowd of champagne holding imbeciles. He failed to tell John that he himself was at 'The Daint', and that it was now almost seven. John chuckled on the other end.

“He has a nasty scar running parallel to his left eyebrow, and he's got cauliflower ears.” John supplied, and Sherlock grinned. He then hung up, forgetting that there was an actual human being on the other end who might be slightly offended by the suddenness of which the phone call ended.

The letter was poorly written, but it spoke of a mole. A mole working for Mr Jones, who was John's unemployed step-father. Sherlock wasn't sure how, but he knew that there was something bad going on. To him, the letter was bad news, although he couldn't quite work out how.

He didn't quite understand his sudden alliance with John Watson, they were chatting as if they'd known each other for years; yet they'd only bumped into one another yesterday. All he knew however was that whatever John's Dad was up to, it wasn't good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... how do you think I'm doing so far? Any feedback at all is welcome :)


	4. Umbrella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, but the italic isn't working for me, and I'm trying to post a chapter a day. I'm not with my laptop for a few days, so it making posting difficult. Later chapters should have the italics for texts though. Sorry about that.

Finely cut glasses clinked together as the toast finished. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he continued to stalk the crowd, looking out for two people; Jim, and the mysterious Mr Jones. His attention was captivated. He was practically hopping through the crowd, trying to spot the Potato looking man as John had so graciously dubbed him, but then a hand fell on his shoulder. 

"Good evening."

Sherlock groaned before spinning around on his heel, turning to face the person who had disrupted him from his hunting spree. 

"Ah, good evening, Sir." Sherlock said, immediately turning on the charm that Jim had taught him. 

'The only way of getting anywhere in life is through charm, Sherlock.' He would say. 'The preface is always a lie. Build your front, and they'll never see the evil that's inside. It's your evil, Sherlock. The evil that you hold.' 

Sherlock winced as he remembered the memories. He wasn't evil, but he had the evil inside him. That's what Jim was always getting at. 'You're not evil, Sherlock. But you have it. You possess the beautiful evil. The evil is merely one of your strongest players. It's your evil, Sherlock. You own it.' 

"Nice to see you here, I didn't expect you'd come." The man said, smiling down at him and making him feel slightly uneasy. Sherlock shuffled his feet below him awkwardly. 

"I wasn't expecting to come, either. It was a last minute thing." He said politely, attempting a small smile. 

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" Sherlock's name rolled off the man's tongue awkward as though he felt uneasy saying it. The 'Sher' sounded like a completely different word to the 'lock'.

"I should say so." Sherlock retorted. The man sneered. "I'm sorry-" his patience was wearing thin now. He still had to find this Mr Jones. "... But do I know you?" 

"I should say so, although it was a very long time ago that we last spoke. I'm Mycroft Holmes." The man, now known as Mycroft, leaned forward, as if expecting Sherlock to react to this new found evidence. Sherlock had grown unimpressed and bored by this stage, and therefore decided that he found this new person to be dull. He was sure that he'd met him before however, his face did draw some recognition, but not enough to stop Sherlock from darting out of the conversation as quickly as possible.

"Well, like your existence, that means nothing to me. Excuse me." Sherlock turned around and began walking away from Mycroft, who was smirking slightly at the retreating curly mopped head. 

"You haven't changed." Mycroft laughed, but the moment Sherlock was out of earshot he pulled out his phone and withdrew from the crowd. Sherlock didn't see him again that evening. 

Meanwhile Sherlock continued to scour the sea of suits and dresses, until he spotted a man who could only be Mr Jones. 

He observed him quickly. The scar above his eyebrow ran parallel with his bushy eyebrow, ending just off centre of his forehead. Sherlock couldn't quite work out how that was caused, and supposed that he could always ask John. It looked old though. He wondered how long the man had been John's step-father if the cut was only a few years old? And if John had been stubborn enough not to take his name at the time of the Mums marriage? 

The cauliflower ear was the second most defining feature of the man. That indicated fighting. Several of Jim's henchmen supported cauliflower ears, so Sherlock could identify them at once, not that they weren't easy to spot in the first place. But that was as far as Sherlock got.

"Sherlock! C'mere'" Jim called, gesturing for Sherlock to go to him, and directly next to Mr Jones. Surely Jim knew what he was up to. 

"Sherlock, this is Mr Jones." Jim said, putting a hand on Sherlock's back as he leant forward and shook Mr Jones's hand. He could feel the calluses beneath his fingers. That was the same hand that he used to punch John with, Sherlock thought bitterly. 

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones." Sherlock beamed, and Mr Jones grinned toothily back at him, displaying several gold teeth and crooked yellow ones. 

"Ah, a boy with manners, I see. My own wretched son doesn't know what manners are I should expect. But then again, it's probably because it's got the word man in it, and he's not one of them at all." He laughed. Sherlock cocked his head to one side. While there were no signs of alcohol consumption, the man was talking as if he'd drowned the bar. Sherlock's insides growled at what he'd just said about John, at any rate. He took a sidewards glance at Jim, who nodded for him to continue the conversation. 

"I see." He said, causally brushing off what he'd just heard. "So what business are you in?" It was a wasted attempt, he found out as the man's spit flew at him and landed on his cheek while he heartily laughed. Sherlock brought his hand to his face and wiped it off, somehow managing to look down on the man who stood taller than him. He failed to see what was so amusing. 

"Ah, that's far too complicated for you to understand. What is it with kids, eh?" He turned towards Jim, who Sherlock could plainly see was feigning interest. "Think they know everything. I have to be careful around my own. Goes rooting through the mail, he does. Reading all my bills. Bless him." Sherlock's insides did the thing again.

So that's how John found that letter. Sherlock thought to himself. 

"I'm sure he doesn't think that." Sherlock put in, earning a cautious look from Jim. That third kiss was slowly creeping closer. 

"I'm sorry?" Mr Jones raised his eyebrows, Sherlock would have found his expression quite comical, if it wasn't for the hatred burning in his chest.

"I'm fairly certain that your step-son doesn't think that he knows everything, at all. He obviously doesn't know that you're here tonight, why should he? He knows that you're unemployed though. You've been claiming Job Seekers Allowance for some time now; but clearly you've got a job otherwise you wouldn't be wearing that suit." Mr Jones opened his mouth, but Sherlock silenced him. 

"I'm not done yet." He snapped. Mr Jones shut his mouth. Jim was glaring at him.

"So what do you do then? You're a fighter, going by the ear. Or you were one. You don't have opponents now, only victims. Just before you came out you gave your step-daughter a smack so hard it drew blood. You've got blood on your hand and it's not your own. Your wife is your other target, and occasionally it's your step-son. Who, as I'm sure you've noticed, is probably only reading your mail to keep an eye on something that may affect his mother and sister. So next time you're thinking of slagging him off for your own amusement, I suggest you look long and hard at yourself first, because right now all I'm seeing is a drivelling, pathetic excuse for a human-being who looks rather like a potato." Sherlock finished, and then wheeled around and stormed off back towards the balcony, leaving a confused Mr Jones and an angry Jim behind him. 

Once he was back in the cool London air, he began texting John.

Keep an eye on your mother and sister tonight. Your Dad is slightly pissed off. - SB

"Master Brooke?" Sherlock looked behind him as someone called his name. It was just a servant. "Mr Moriarty says that there will be a car to collect you shortly. You should go and wait outside before it arrives."

Sherlock nodded as the servant disappeared. The rage that had filled him a few minutes ago was ebbing away, and was being quickly replaced by dread leaking into his stomach. 

\--

Keep an eye on your mother and sister tonight. Your Dad is slightly pissed off. - SB

John scowled at the text as it came through. 

Harry's here with me, Mum's gone to the pub. How do you know that Dad's annoyed? What's going on?

He pressed send, and then a few seconds later sent:

Also, stop with the SB thing. I know who you are. 

He'd sorted out Harry's cut, and now they were both lounging on the sofa watching what he could only describe as the 'shittest thing ever to be shown on television'. But Harry liked it, so he put up with it. She'd go to bed soon enough anyway, and then he'd put on what he wanted. That was how it usually worked. 

John's phone buzzed again, and he fully expected it to be Sherlock, so he unlocked it quickly.

What do you know of William Holmes? 

John frowned.

Absolutely nothing whatsoever. I think you've got the wrong number. Sorry.

He hit send and plonked the phone back down on to the arm of the chair, scratching his chin as his mind deflected the rubbish TV programme. There was a knock at the door. 

"Harry, I want you to go to your room and lock the door, okay? Apparently Dad's annoyed." John ordered, fully expecting it to be him at the door.

"Since when do I take orders from you?" She snorted. John stood up and switched off the TV, leaving a bemused Harry on the sofa. He then crept towards the front door. He unbolted it, and swung it open. 

"Ah! You must be John Watson." The man at the door wore a suit, and was resting easily on an umbrella. Behind him, a car with blacked out windows rumbled lowly on the road. The hairs on John's arms stood up straight. 

"You don't have to look so frightened. I just need to ask you a couple of questions." The man said. "May I?" He nodded towards the inside of the house. John had no idea why, but he found himself nodding and stepping aside so that the man could enter. "Thank you." He stepped through the door way and navigated himself into the living room, where Harry had sprawled out across the sofa.

"You must be Harriet." The man smiled, but Harry didn't return it.

"Harry." She corrected.

"Right, sorry." The man said. "Do you mind if I talk to your brother for a few minutes... in private?" He put emphasis on the private, and Harry craned her neck as to see John. John nodded, and Harry (after much procrastinating) left the room. 

John gestured for him to sit down, and the man did so, his umbrella resting against his leg. John continued standing, but the man didn't seem fazed. 

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I work for MI6." Something in John's stomach lurched. What did the MI6 want with him? 

"I need to talk to you about one William Holmes..." Mycroft reached into his blazer and extracted a folder. John eyed it intently.

"Are you the guy who texted me?" John asked, and Mycroft smirked. 

"Yes. Now, what can you tell me about William Holmes, or Sherlock Brooke as you better know him?" 

John was confused. So this was about Sherlock? Why was this guy calling him William? 

"Not a lot... I met him yesterday." John replied. Mycroft smirked. 

"You seem to be friends though, within no less than an hour you've texted each other..." He paused as he thought "... No less than 7 times." John laughed.

"You really don't know about teenagers and texting. That's nothing." 

"For two people who only met yesterday?" Mycroft grinned, and John's smile faltered. 

"William Holmes is my younger brother. He was kidnapped from the family estate at the age of 9. A few weeks later, a boy bearing extremely similar features to William showed up in the care of Jim Moriarty. What do you know of him?" 

John was trying to rake through his brain, while at the same time attempting to absorb what he'd just learnt about Sherlock. Or maybe learnt about William. He didn't even know if this guy was telling the truth, and it suddenly dawned on him that he'd let a complete stranger into the house.

"Nothing? He didn't really mention him. He said something about him getting annoyed when he 'deduced' things at inappropriate times." John watched Mycroft as he said it. The man was smiling with what John could only describe as fondness, and pity. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what you're doing here." 

Mycroft handed the folder over to John, and John carefully opened it so that he didn't dislodge the paper clips. 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was stamped across the first page in large black letters, and underneath were several pictures of a young boy.

On the first picture, the boy was grinning, showing off a large gap where his front tooth had fallen out. John grinned back at the photograph. His face was plastered in dirt, and behind him showed a large garden, with a dog running around quite happily.

The next picture demonstrated another side to the 9 year old. People who John could only guess were his family; were all seated around a large table. They were smiling and laughing, all except Sherlock, who was scowling at his broccoli. 

"Later that night he threw that broccoli at my Aunt Ruth's head." Mycroft said, pointed at a woman sitting opposite Sherlock. 

The pictures followed on like that, some happy, some Sherlock looking death at the camera, and at other people. Until John turned the page. 

Blood. Lots of blood. 

"This was the night he was taken." Mycroft said. John slowly took in the writing and the pictures.

A bedroom that he'd seen in previous pictures was completely upturned. The lamp lay the other side of the room, and the mattress and duvet were stained red. A microscope lay broken on the floor, and petri dishes were scattered. The curtains had been pulled down, too. 

"Jeez." John breathed, turning the page, but it was all statements from relatives. 

"This was taken a few weeks later." Mycroft said, turning the page again. The picture showed a very skinny, emaciated boy clutching on to a suit dwelling young man. His arms and legs were wrapped around the young man's body, and it looked like the man in question was having difficulty walking. Although the man wasn't holding on to Sherlock, Sherlock was still holding on tightly. He was scared stiff. Something lurched in John's stomach.

"How long has he been with him?" John asked, deciding that he'd seen enough and shutting the folder. 

"7 years, soon going on for 8." Mycroft supplied, and John grit his teeth.

"Why didn't you just go and get him? If you knew where he was?" 

"Too risky." Mycroft said simply, leaning back on the sofa. 

"Too risky?" John repeated incredulously. "He's your brother!" 

"I didn't know what he wanted William for. The blood previously shown wasn't all his own, quite a lot of it belonged to our parents. Originally, I guessed that they wanted to use Sherlock as a bargaining tool. However, our parents died after the event, and before William had shown up in Moriarty's care. So when a few weeks later this picture came through I knew that that couldn't be the reason. Moriarty wanted him for something else."

"What?" John asked. "What does he want him for?" 

\--

For the second time that evening Sherlock found himself standing outside in the cold waiting for a car. He stamped his feet and buried his hands in his pockets. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck in a vain attempt to keep warm. He waited, and waited, but the car never came. 

"Sherlock!" Sherlock was relieved when Sebastian's voice hit his ears. He turned around, smiling and expecting Sebastian to be doing the same. "This way." He said gruffly, Sherlock followed. 

Sebastian turned into an alleyway running alongside The Daint, and as Sherlock stepped casually into it too, a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into the wall. Sherlock yelled. 

"Don't injure the boy, Sebastian." Sherlock heard Jim's voice echo through the alley. 

Sebastian had one hand pressed against Sherlock's mouth, who was grappling at the arm preventing him from breathing properly. He was pinned up against the wall, and kicking out wildly. How had this happened? 

He quickly realised that struggling against the strength of Sebastian was pointless, and allowed the hand to clench tighter around his mouth, at the same time letting his feet drop. 

"Let go of him." Jim commanded cooly, and Sebastian let his arm fall to his side, straightening up as Sherlock fell to the ground, legs unprepared for receiving his weight. 

"You're so stupid, Sherlock." The voice was smooth, but it cut through Sherlock like a knife. "And you need to stop interfering." Silence drew as Jim drew closer. 

"You're the one who dragged me here." Sherlock growled, looking up so that Jim was visible to him between curls. 

"What else was I supposed to do with you?" Jim laughed, stretching out his arms. Sherlock slowly stood up. "All you ever do is run off! You ran off from the library, again. You're rude to the servants. You have no respect. I took you in, Sherlock. You're ungrateful." 

Not for the first time, Sherlock felt awful. He knew that he kept running off, but he never knew how Jim felt about it. He just presumed that Jim turned a blind eye to it. From the age of 11, after Sherlock had stopped becoming so needy of him, he'd lost interest in Sherlock completely. 

"I..." Sherlock started, but he was cut off. 

"Do you have any idea how important Mr Jones is? Do you have any idea how much trouble we went to to get him here tonight? Do you have any idea?" 

Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, it was a lot of effort. Everything I do Sherlock, absolutely everything, you have a habit of tearing down. Whether you do it on purpose or not? I don't know. But at this moment in time, you're a waste of space." 

Sherlock could feel the Earth slowly turning. Was Jim doing what he thought he was doing? No. No, that couldn't be right. Jim loved Sherlock like a younger brother. He would never...

"Which is why you're not leaving the house until you've come of use. Proper use, Sherlock. I'm not having you run around and mess everything up. I took you in, Sherlock. That makes you my property. I own you."

Cars rolled by only a few paces away from where they were standing. Sherlock felt drained. Jim was putting him under house arrest? And since when was Sherlock his property? 

He nodded meekly, bowing his head and staring at his shoes. He was angry, very angry. Angry that he was now being treated like a prisoner; like he was being held to ransom for something. Yet he was also hopelessly defeated. He couldn't believe he'd betrayed Jim's trust, after all Jim had done for him. He felt like he had no option but to come quietly. 

And come quietly was what he indeed had to come, because his hands were roughly drawn together so that they met behind him, and handcuffs ensured that they didn't come apart.

"What the hell?!" He blurted out, turning around in circles wildly, attempting to rid himself of the cuffs. "Jim, I didn't know about Mr Jones. I promise. I saw what he'd done to his wife and step-children and I lost it. That's all!" Sherlock said desperately, finally stopping turning and facing Jim. Jim's face showed no emotion. 

"I know. You don't know what you're doing. That's the whole point!" The last part was shouted, shouted so loudly that the only thing stopped Sherlock from flinching was his sheer will not to. "I thought that 7 years would be long enough. Maybe I Mollycoddled you too much." He stepped closer, mere inches from Sherlock's face now, and Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose, as if attempting to demonstrate how strong he was. "You're going to be changed, Sherlock." Jim whispered. "You're coming out when you're deemed as useful. Not a second sooner. Disobey me, Sherlock, and the consequences will be severe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock. Feedback is welcome :)


	5. Glove

Sherlock was fairly certain that he'd never been kidnapped before; but he could wager a guess as to what it felt like, and this was turning out to be pretty much identical to the way he'd envisioned it. Although he wasn't being kidnapped, not really. He was being taken home.

The metal handcuffs were digging into his wrists, rubbing off of his skin. He could handle it though. Jim had disappeared, and his absence Sherlock had been grabbed rather unceremoniously (in his opinion), and thrown onto the floor by Sebastian. The ground was wet and cold, and Sherlock thanked his coat for keeping him warm. He knew he wouldn't be able to make a run for it, but Sebastian rested his foot on Sherlock's side anyway, keeping him firmly on the ground.

There was a disgusting tension in the air, but it couldn't have been more different to the one that had riled him when he spoke to Molly and John. Oh God. John.

Sherlock shivered, partly from the water that dripped off over hanging gutter, and partly because he now found himself worrying immensely about was to become of John Watson. Mr Jones was a liar. A great thieving liar with an awful temper that was sure to come out once he got home. There were no two ways about it. If he had the urge, Sherlock could quite merrily go down to the Police Station and inform them of Mr Jones and his fraudulent schemes, and maybe while he was there just happen to mention the domestic abuse. But that was really an option now.

The boot dug harder into Sherlock's side, causing Sherlock to wriggle in an attempt to shake the foot off.

"Can you take your foot off me, please?" He asked, looking up at Sebastian who was towering over him.

"Nice try." Sebastian smirked, pressing down harder. Sherlock frowned.

"No, seriously, it's quite unpleasant. I actually think you'll damage my pancreas or something." Sherlock stated.

"Who cares?"

"Well I care. It being my body and all." Sherlock quipped.

"Your body?" Sebastian repeated. He withdrew his foot and stared down at Sherlock, who was glaring back unflinchingly. "Sherlock, it's not your body. I think Jim established that pretty clearly." From the way he was talking, it was as if they were seated around a dining table having a debate over some meaningless drivel.

"He doesn't own my body. That's stupid. My brain controls my body, so I think that I do in fact hold the rights to ownership over my body."

"Here's where you're wrong, Sherly-Boy." Sebastian spoke quietly, crouching down so that his knee was level with Sherlock's face. He bent down low so that his face with mere inches away from Sherlock's ear. "Jim Moriarty owns you. You, as you said, 'hold the rights to ownership over your body'. So, Jim owns you, Jim owns your body."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"He doesn't own me. He will never own me." Sherlock whispered back, and although it was but a whisper, the edge of anger was still present.

"You might want to rethink that, Sherlock. Because if you keep on like that, the rest of your life will be one hell of a miserable place to be."

Sebastian straightened up so quickly that Sherlock didn't have time to react before the boot collided with his head turning his world to darkness.

\--

Mycroft's phone going off prevented John from receiving an answer to his question. He watched as Mycroft stood up and started to meander round his house, leaving John standing in the living room.

John knew that he probably ought to keep his eye on Mycroft so that he could see what he was up to, but something about him made John not worry too much about whether or not Mycroft would steal anything. He had a feeling that he could afford everything this house had to offer anyway.

"John." John jumped as Mycroft strode back into the room. "I see that you'll be helping with the operation, then?" John was confused.

"Operation? What...?"

"The Operation to make sure that Sherlock is alright. I've just received intelligence that, for everyone's sake lets just call him Sherlock, he doesn't remember William, that Sherlock's caused quite a kerfuffle at the party he was attending, concerning one Mr Jones..."

John's stomach dropped.

"Mr Jones?" He queried. "That's my Dad!" He half yelled, making Mycroft look slightly stunned.

"I'm sure there are more than one 'Mr Jones' in the world." He said, waving it aside.

"No, you don't understand." John pulled out his phone and began tapping away trying to find his conversation with Sherlock. "I found this letter, addressed to my Dad, only it was written in French. I was talking to Sherlock earlier and I remembered that he could speak several languages-"

"Only 'several'? He knew more than that before... Continue." Mycroft put in. John followed orders and continued.

"Anyway, it mentioned something about The Daint, and obviously that wasn't in French. So I knew it had something to do with that. Only then Sherlock phoned me asking for a description of him. When I'd given it he hung up. Was he at the same place where my Dad was..?" John suddenly felt like someone had opened the top of his head and dropped a lead weight onto his brain.

"Oh God... Do you think he had a go at him? He text me afterwards telling me that Dad was pissed off... Did Sherlock piss him off? Did he mention Mum? What about Harry? If Sherlock's said something they'll be in so much danger... Is Sherlock okay? I mean, the man's a brute! He'll have knocked him out in two seconds flat!" John was in hysterics, mind shooting off questions that were bouncing around his lead-filled skull.

"Calm down, John." John could tell that Mycroft wasn't usually one for comfort, but he still appreciated the attempt, even if it wasn't working. "I'll have surveillance put on your step-father, mother and sister at all times. I'll have people ready should he show the slightest sign of being aggressive. But I need you to help me."

John blinked. Mycroft was essentially saying that if he helped him, then he'd protect his mother and sister. If he didn't... Then they wouldn't be protected. But he wanted to help Mycroft. No, more than that he wanted to help Sherlock. He didn't know who these people were or what they did, but he felt as though Sherlock had been with them long enough.

"What happened then? With the kerfuffle?" John asked, calming down and frowning at Mycroft.

"He, ah... He shouted a little bit at your step-father, while in the presence of Moriarty. He then was spotted waiting outside The Daint for what was presumably a car until-"

"Until...?"

"Sebastian Moran, a trained killer working for Jim Moriarty told Sherlock to follow him, which he did. It's our understanding that Moran and Sherlock have, or had, a relatively good relationship. It's also been mentioned that there's more than just work going on between Moriarty and Moran, so it's extremely likely that Sherlock will regard Moran as highly as he seems to regard Moriarty."

John was having a difficult time wrapping his head around what Mycroft was telling him. There were too many M's for his liking. The only word that stuck out to him was Sherlock.

"Sherlock followed Moran into an alleyway. We don't know what happened inside the alleyway owing to the fact that our CCTV suffers from a particular blind spot in that area. However, around half an hour later there were reports made off a van pulling up and a couple of men loading a body into the back."

"Right. Wait. Body?"

"Unconscious, it would seem." Mycroft said. He said it so calmly that John felt slightly worried for the man. How many unconscious people being hauled into the back of a van had he had to deal with?

"So... What do you want me to do?" John asked.

"Tomorrow, after school, you are to wait at the newsagents at the end of your school's road, where a car will collect you. You will walk to house number 39. It's a rather big building, you can't miss it. Once there, ask to see Sherlock." Mycroft finished simply.

"That's it? You want me to walk up to the front door and pop in for a cuppa tea and a chat? How's that gonna work?" John laughed disbelievingly.

"Are you going to help or not?" Mycroft scowled. 

John nodded. 

"Right then. I'll be in touch." And just like that, he left.

\--

Light poured though the window and onto his face, lighting up all of the many dust particles that swirled around the room. Someone had opened the curtains. Sherlock grunted and rolled over, stretching out and then collapsing again, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to see how bad his morning breath was. His head was throbbing.

With much difficulty he opened one of his eyes, and was relieved to see that he was alone in the room. Whoever had opened the curtains had been and gone, which he was thankful for. Although, it suddenly dawned on him that the windows that were allowing sunlight to saturate the room weren't his windows. As he regained his senses he also realised that this wasn't his bedroom at all, and not even his bed.

He slowly lifted himself up so that he was perched on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He then stood up and took in his surroundings in a little more detail.

The room was tidy. A lot tidier than his was. There were no defining features, no little accessories dotted around. It was completely bare, all except for the wardrobes and chest of drawers. He also found that he was sitting on a queen-sized bed.

"Sherlock! You're awake! We were so worried..." Sherlock hadn't even noticed Jim enter the room.

"Huh?" He looked up, the sun still doing unhappy things to his eyes, making him blink a bit. Not to mention the fact that he was still half asleep.

"Are you alright? You gave us such a fright..." Jim said worriedly, quickly darting across the room and sitting down next to Sherlock. He felt himself dip as the extra weight was added to the mattress.

"Why am I in your room?" Sherlock asked, turning around to see behind him, just to confirm to himself that it was in fact Jim's room.

"That doesn't matter." Jim said, quite quickly and a bit too defiantly for Sherlock to just brush it off. But he did, just this once.

Sherlock looked back a Jim. He looked haggard, tired. But then he started to remember what had taken place the night before. With the party, and shouting at Mr Jones and then waiting for the car... Sebastian telling him to go to the alley with him... Sherlock jumped up.

"Sherlock?!" Jim watched incredulously as Sherlock quickly scrambled behind one of the rich oak posts of Jim's four-poster bed. "Sherlock? What's-"

"Why am I in your room?" Sherlock questioned again, and Jim stood up too now. "Jim... Why am I in your room?"

"You hit your head last night, and we were worried about you. That's all. You're in my room because quite frankly the bed is comfier and we thought you needed the rest. That's all." Jim explained softly. Sherlock was confused.

He looked back at Jim, who looked stricken and quite frankly scared. Jim's eyes were pleading with him. Begging him to believe him. Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor.

"What happened? What happened in the alley?" He asked quietly. He had his suspicions, and he was fairly certain of what happened too, but he had to hear it from Jim. 

Jim walked around the bed and sat him down, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him down with him so they sat on the bed together.

"You were attacked, by someone who doesn't particularly like me." Jim said, running a head through his perfectly groomed hair. Sherlock blinked. That wasn't what happened. That wasn't what happened at all. He decided to play it out anyway, just to see what Jim would say. 

"Someone doesn't like you?" Jim laughed at Sherlock's shocked (and a bit too dramatised) expression.

"Yes. And they don't like you either, to tell you the truth. You've... You've caused a bit of a stir." Sherlock blinked. That was an understatement. 

"Me? What've... Oh. Is this because of Mr Jones?" 

"Not just Mr Jones, Sherlock. People have started to get wind of your little talent." Jim looked at Sherlock as if expecting him to know what he was talking about, but Sherlock had still only just woken up, and his head was still killing him, so he was a little slower than usual- or, that was what he was trying to convey, anyway. 

"My... Talent?" 

"Sherlock. There are dangerous people who want to use you."

"Use me? What?" He could see that Jim was growing irritated by his torrent of questions, and was therefore desperate to keep it to a minimum. Curiosity was getting the better of him, however.

"What do you remember about last night?" Jim asked.

Sherlock thought hard. He remembered everything. The threat. The statement of ownership. Jim leaving and then talking to Sebastian... Everything.

"... Nothing."

"Nothing?" Jim repeated, sounding surprised.

"Nothing." Sherlock confirmed solidly.

If he wasn't mistaken, Sherlock could have sworn that Jim looked relieved. Only for a fleeting moment though, because a second later his face fell into one of stone. Sherlock was surprised that he'd believed it though. Jim was always telling him how much of a rubbish liar he was. Yet he was always giving people the slip anyway. Worming his way into places he shouldn't be all through lying and a fair amount of acting. So really, he was a pretty good actor.

Jim's phone then erupted through the silence, and he quickly checked it.

"Don't get into too much trouble, Sherlock." He said, before taking the call and striding from the room.

The moment he left, Sherlock stood up abruptly, almost falling over as he did so. He dashed to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. As soon as he was sure that Jim's footsteps had disappeared, he turned the handle and gently pushed the door open. He then darted quickly towards his own room, but not before raiding the freezer in order to make an ice-pack for his head.

–

After waiting for five minutes, John eventually decided that moss was disgusting. That was his excuse for kicking a great clump of it off of the curb where it had decided to grow in a great green tuft anyway. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was growing bored and agitated.

He'd had a rubbish day as it was. He hadn't seen his Dad at all, which was a plus, but it made him anxious. He knew that Harry was safe, because she'd been at school and was currently on the bus heading towards her friends house. But he didn't know about his Mum, who had returned paraplegic from the pub after Mycroft had left and was probably nursing a marvellous hangover. 

John stepped back as the car rolled next to him, and he pulled the door open. The driver didn't say a word to him as he sat down, but he did find that he wasn't alone in the back. 

A woman, a very pretty woman, John thought, was sitting on the opposite passengers side and tapping away madly on her phone. Although John was fairly certain she was just playing a game. She didn't say a word to him as the pulled off, so John decided to try and coax her into talking.

“Hello.” He said, attempting the warmest smile manageable for him, but he was slightly worried about coming off as a mad pubescent teenager. 

“Hello.” She replied. John had now grown slightly conscious of himself and decided not to utter another syllable for the rest of the journey.

They pulled up on the edge of a housing estate, and not the sort of council estate that John lived in. The houses were large, with high brick walls built around each one. Entrance to each house was possible through tall, metal gates, and John was fairly certain that a passcode was needed in order to enter. Despite the overall alarming level of security, it seemed a nice area. Trees were planted on grass verges, and the rain from yesterday was slowly drying on the road. 

“The houses start at number 31, so you haven't got far to walk.” The woman said suddenly. She then reached into her pocket and pulled out a glove. “Mycroft placed the other one on him yesterday. Take this, and say that he left it with you yesterday and that you'd like to return it.” 

“And then what?”

“And then you hope that they let you in.” She said. John took the glove off her and stuffed it roughly into his blazer pocket. It had only just occurred to him that he was still wearing his school uniform, too. 

“Right. Thanks.” John got out of the car and it quickly did a three-point turn before driving back down the road. 

John started walking down the road and not before long found himself standing on the wrong side of a wrought iron gate. It was painted jet black, and through the gaps John could see a white pebbled driveway. To his right was a small metal bow attached to the wall displaying silver dials, and a large button. John pressed the button. 

“Hello?” A woman's voice spoke through an unseen speaker. It made John jump.

“Hello...? Urm, can I speak to Sherlock, please?” He asked, and after a few seconds of silence the voice responded again.  
“Who is this?” The voice asked politely. John silently cleared his throat.

“Urgh, John Watson. Sherlock left his glove with me yesterday and I thought I ought to return it.” John fiddled with the glove uneasily in his hands as the gate suddenly began moving. 

“That's very nice of you. The gates will be opening now. Please knock on the door before entering.” 

“Thank you.” John said, before striding through the gap in the gate that had been opened wide enough for him to squeeze through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... These notes are actually slightly awkward, aren't they? As usual, feedback is welcome. :)


	6. Peas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John likes trashy spy books. This is a thing, okay? :)

Awkward wasn't the right word. It was more unadulterated fear mixed with something that would possibly be coloured brown, should it have a colour at all. In other words, John felt slightly ill.

John strode along the driveway, black cars with blacked out windows were parked outside the garage, and John couldn't help but get the impression that this place was a thoroughfare for all things secretive. Dread swelled in the pit of his stomach. Eventually, after a walk that seemed twice as long as his previous walk along the street, he reached the door. He knocked on it heavily. With the glove still clenched tightly in his hand, he brought down his fists so that they rested uneasily at his side. The door opened.

John immediately recognised the man standing in front of him. The suit was different, but in the space of seven years the face hadn't aged a day. John could feel heat creeping up his neck.

"You must be John Watson!" The man that could only be Moriarty said jovially, putting a hand around John's arm and positively dragging him inside. He shut the door behind him, before spinning around to face John. The man was too happy.

John was met by a large hallway, with rich cream carpets and a sweeping wooden staircase. He felt horribly out of place. The hallway alone was bigger than his whole house.

"I... I came to give Sherlock his glove." John said slightly awestruck as he took in his surroundings. From what Mycroft had said, he'd expected Moriarty to have treated Sherlock like dirt. But it now became apparent that Sherlock wasn't living in such harsh conditions as he had previously thought.

"Ah! Yes! Thank you!" Moriarty beamed and took the glove from John. "Yeah, we found the other one in his coat pocket yesterday. Darnedest thing, I'd never seen that glove in my life. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" The front of the was happy, bouncy, but John could quite plainly see into the dark interior. He knew Moriarty knew that Sherlock didn't own this set of gloves. John knew a mask when he saw one and quite frankly he didn't like what was being hidden.

"Ah, yes actually." He started. "He bought them yesterday from one of those little street vendors because his hands were cold, then asked me to hold on to them for him while he paid at the library cafe. It was my fault, I thought I'd given them both back but apparently not." He explained, looking the glove that Moriarty was holding. John had already decided when Mycroft had burst into his house that he didn't like Moriarty, but now he decided that he loathed him. He detested fake people, and Moriarty was nothing but.

Perhaps John's sudden hatred had shown in his face, because he soon felt Moriarty's eyes boring into his own as if reading him. John changed his stance a little.

"Nice of him to buy you a drink." Moriarty said casually. His voice was plain, but John still felt as though he were being scrutinised and judged.

"Yes. Yes it was, wasn't it?" John wasn't completely sure where to look, but defiance told him to look at Moriarty. The gaze made him want to either crumple into a pile of nothingness, or punch the man. He wasn't quite decided. Neither option was carried out however, as a new voice sounded.

"John?"

John looked up to find Sherlock standing in a door way. He was bleary eyed, wearing simple grey pyjamas and resting a bag of frozen peas on his head.

"Peas, Sherlock? Really?" Moriarty groaned, like a mother after her child came into the house covered in mud.

"I've got a headache." Sherlock replied simply.

"You know we have aspirins?"

"I needed to reduce swelling of a lump that I've managed to acquire. Aspirins don't reduce swellings." Sherlock glared at Moriarty before striding over towards John.

"What're you doing here?" He asked, almost through clenched teeth.

"Giving you back your glove." John gestured towards the glove that Moriarty was waggling in front of his face. Sherlock looked confused, but then recovered himself almost immediately.

"I was wondering where that went. Thank you." He reached forward and took the glove from Moriarty, who pouted at his lack of glove. Sherlock meanwhile turned back to John. "So you'll be leaving now, then?" It was almost a demand, and John was almost willing to accept. But he couldn't help but feel as though he was missing something. He knew nothing of their relationship, but he felt that there was something rotten going on between Sherlock and Moriarty. Something that neither of them were talking about.

"Don't be so rude, Sherlock." Moriarty said sternly. He then turned to John. "John can stay if he wants." Moriarty was inching forwards, while Sherlock stood behind him shaking his head slowly as if to tell John to get out.

"Oh, I'd love to, really, but-"

"Lovely!" Moriarty clasped his hands together and then ran off, undoubtedly to fetch one of the servants and cutting John off completely. Sherlock did not seem impressed.

"What're you doing here?" He growled again. He stood several inches taller than John, and was looking down on him with malice.

"Giving you" John straightened himself up, also speaking fiercely "your damn glove back." Sherlock seemed to shrink a couple of inches. He was towering over John a little less, at any rate.

"That's not my glove." He said finally, readjusting the bag of frozen peas.

"Well it's not mine either. Here-" John stood on tiptoes and took the peas from Sherlock's head. "These aren't going to help on their own. Painkillers will stop your head from hurting so much-" John somehow managed to get Sherlock into such a position so that John could peer at the injury through the entanglement of black unbrushed hair. "You've got a scab. You bled? What happened?"

"Kicked." Sherlock muttered, swiping the frozen peas back from John and placing them roughly back on his head.

"You were kicked? By who?" John asked, but Sherlock just shook his head just as Moriarty came back around the corner. The warning in his eyes told him to shut up. John decided to do what he was there for, which was to help Sherlock. Right now, Sherlock could do without John making Moriarty dislike him.

"Do you want some tea, John?" Moriarty asked him, rejoining them.

"I would love some, thank you." He smiled politely as Moriarty lead him towards another room, with Sherlock looking daggers at him from behind.

\--

Sherlock was brought away from his death-stare stance by Mrs Green's voice cracking through the air like a wip.

"Sherlock! Dressed! Now!" Sherlock groaned. He had wanted to follow John and Jim, or maybe run off in an entirely different direction. A small part of him wanted to set off the fire alarm so that John would be able to leave. The more resilient side to him however simply accepted Mrs Green's demand and stalked off towards his bedroom.

Once he was there, he carelessly pushed the door open and sauntered in, expecting his room to be the same mess as the way he'd last seen it. It wasn't.

His books were gone. The microscope, the petri-dishes, even the pictures and string from the wall had gone. Everything had vanished. He strode over to the wardrobe and yanked it open. Thankfully, all of his clothes were still there- but the festering experiments had all disappeared. He swore loudly, spinning around the room and trying to find something of his own. Until he suddenly remembered under the bed.

Underneath the bed was his solitude. When Jim had first taken him in, he had hidden under his bed whenever anyone was in the room. He had only emerged when he needed the toilet, or for food. Once, he'd fallen asleep under there and had woken up to Sebastian gently easing him out and putting him onto the bed. Sherlock had screamed and kicked and cried, even biting Sebastian in an attempt to let him go. After that, no one dared disturb Sherlock when he was under the bed. Within the last several years however, it had acted as an extra storage facility where everything that went missing usually ended up. Old socks, apple cores, forgotten books; everything was under the bed. Although now there was nothing that the bed was hiding.

Sherlock lowered himself onto the floor and peered underneath it. When he was younger, he could wriggle under the small gap quite easily, but now it was more difficult. He squinted to see more clearly, and at first he thought it was completely void of anything. Except... A post-it note was stuck to one of the wooden slats and was beckoning for him to pull it off. Which he did.

_What? You wanted to go back to your hiding spot again? Don't be so childish._

The words that erupted from Sherlock's mouth in reaction to the note were bright and colourful.

The post-it note very quickly found itself being scrunched up into a ball and thrown at the farthest wall, still with Sherlock hurling abuse at everything and anything his eyes fell upon. After five minutes of telling the post-it note that it was a waste of a tree, Sherlock got dressed, still seething through clenched teeth. He wasn't going to let Jim control every single aspect of his life. He was certain of that. For now though, he straightened his suit jacket, and glided from the refurbished room with a somewhat contemptuous spring in his step.

\--

John was shuffling around uncomfortably on his feet. Moriarty had led him into a room that had absolutely no atmosphere. It astonished John because the room was completely and utterly dead.

A cream leather sofa stood resolute on hard polished floorboards. The bookshelf contained large volumes of trashy spy books (John could vouch that they were awful, because he had read them and loved them himself. Books like that completed him), along with a few collections of classics such as Dracula.

Large bay windows projected light into the room, and if no light could enter a large chandler hung from the ceiling. Yet the room had no character. It was like no one actually lived there, and it was simply a set from a film. Moriarty settled himself down on the sofa, watching thoughtfully as John surveyed the room; chuckling to himself as John gazed at the large collection of atrocious spy novels.

"Do you like my book collection?" Moriarty laughed. John's ears went slightly pink.

"Yeah. Some of those books are my favourites." He said, gesturing at a cluster of paperbacks.

"Do you read much?" Moriarty asked lightly.

"Oh, yeah. Not as often as I'd like. But it's nice to get away from rugby and stuff." He shrugged. Moriarty frowned.

"You play rugby?"

"Yeah." John grinned. He felt slightly less awkward talking about something that he liked. All of a sudden, Moriarty didn't seem that bad. He was like the Uncle who you rarely got to see, but they still acted as though they'd seen you everyday.

"I love it. I'm on the team at school, scrum-half. We won our match last week, but that was against Reechfield and they're awful. Next week we're away at Kings, and they're all trolls. Really tall, but not a lot of brains. Their strategies are rubbish. They've got power on their side though. My mate Greg said, he's on the football team, he said that he played them a while back in football. Said they beat them 10 to nil. So I think we'll be okay." John's face flushed red as he suddenly realised he'd been babbling, again. Moriarty didn't seem to mind though. In fact, he was smiling at John with fondness.

"Would you like to borrow some of my books? I've read them all, and Sherlock has never touched them. They won't be missed."

"Are- are you sure?" John asked, wide eyed. He'd forgotten about his hatred of Moriarty. The man was interested in what he had to say about Rugby, and he was offering him books. Any bloke who did that was decent, in his books.

"Of course! Here, choose as many as you like." Moriarty stood up and lead John towards the bookcase. John's eyes lit up.

"I've never read any David Scott before.." He said, hinting slightly. Moriarty smirked.

"Take them."

A short five minutes later, John was leaving, arms filled with paper backs and hard backs, fit to bursting with every known cheesy spy gadgets. He was beaming. "Just bring them back when you're done." Moriarty had assured him as he lead him back through the gates. John didn't see Sherlock again that day.

\--

He'd just shut the bedroom door when someone collided with him. Knocking a great muscular shoulder into his skinny one.

"Watch it." He growled, not turning to see who the careless walker was. He regretted it immediately.

"What? Sherlock? What?" Sherlock froze as Sebastian responded. "What did you say?" Sherlock grit his teeth.

"I said... Sorry." He decided that that was the best cover up he could come up with. Sebastian considered it, and seemed to accept.

"I've just seen your mate Johnny. Lovely lad." Sherlock spun around.

"What?" Sebastian smirked.

"He plays rugby too, apparently. That's what Jim said anyway. Great lad though. Even brought your glove back."

"I know." Sherlock stated. Wondering what Sebastian was getting at, and growing all the more cautious as each second passed. He hadn't forgotten the events of the previous evening. Not the threat, not the pinning him against a wall.

"It's a shame really." Sebastian continued, picking idly at one of his finger nails and not really paying too much attention to Sherlock, which infuriated him.

"What's a shame?" Sherlock's teeth were clenched again, and he was trying with all his might not to ball up his fists. He hated being taunted. Sebastian merely looked up from his nails and smirked. "Where's John?" Sherlock spat. "Sebastian, where is John?"

He didn't want John to get hurt because of him. He hated himself for going to the police station and meeting him, and then going to Bart's and stealing his apron and notebook. What's more, he despised himself for taking him to the library and buying him tea. Now John had turned up, which would only get him onto Jim's radar even more. He wasn't involved in anything. He was nothing to do with Sherlock at all. So the question that Sherlock really wanted to know the answer to was: What is John Watson doing?

"Relax. He's just left. Jim gave him some of his spy books. He likes him, you know. It's funny really. I never pictured you to have friends. Yet he's just shown himself."

"I don't know John. I met him two days ago. I stole his apron and notebook, and as an apology I bought him a drink. Today he returned my glove. We don't know each other well enough to even be considered acquaintances." Sherlock explained. He hoped that Sebastian would believe him. After all, he was telling the truth. He'd failed to mention the texts, however.

"You seem to get on." Sebastian said, returning to his nails. Mrs Green scuttled passed them, scowling slightly. Sherlock raised his eyebrow sardonically, prompting Sebastian to continue. "I saw him. Picking out your fleas like a monkey. Observing your head..."

"You're only doing this because you didn't get any last night." Sherlock scorned. He had meant it as a half joke. Only a few knew of Sebastian's and Jim's covert relationship.

"And who's fault is that, Sherlock?" Sherlock shrugged. Jim was under the impression that he had no recollection of what happened the night before whatsoever. He couldn't give that up now. He had a sneaking suspicion that it may play to his advantage at some point.

"I know that you remember." _Oh dear_. "I can see it in your eyes. You'd have gone for the aspirins otherwise, waking up with a headache. You're so predictable. Last time you got into a fight you went for the peas. It's obvious that you remember, otherwise you wouldn't be behaving like this." Sebastian spat.

"So I got into a fight last night?" Sherlock pondered, thoughtfully. Tapping his chin to mock thinking. Sebastian was looking daggers. "You don't happen to know with who, do you?"

Mrs Green came back now. It was the only time in Sherlock's life that he could ever recall being grateful for the presence of her. She loathed Sherlock, but she would never see a hair hurt on his pretty little head.

"Sherlock! Odd Socks! For love of all that is holy and pure in this world, find some matching ones, now!" Sherlock grinned as she swept passed, saluting her as she went. Sebastian snarled as Sherlock disappeared back into his changed room.

\--

It was times like this that John wished he had an infinite number of plastic bags. He felt like a classic nerd from a high school film, carrying bundles of books in his arms and tripping over the pavement where trees planted on the grass verges had uprooted the ground. He therefore didn't spot the black car rolling along side him.

"Do you need a lift?" The books almost went flying as the voice made him jump. He turned to see Mycroft sticking his head out of the window.

"Yes. Please." John breathed heavily and the car door swung open. He deposited the books first, and then slid into the vehicle himself.

"Are you collecting?" Mycroft asked, picking up a particularly worn paperback and turning it over, studying the blurb.

"Moriarty gave them to me." John told him, straightening the books so that they formed a tower. They toppled over as the car ran over a speed bump. John glared at the back of the drivers head.

"Moriarty gave you books?" Mycroft said slowly, apparently having difficulties in understanding what he was being told.

"Yep. And we talked about Rugby. He's an alright bloke to be honest." John shrugged, sorting out the books again. Mycroft sighed.

"John, he's a criminal mastermind who kidnapped a nine year old boy and ultimately killed his parents. He is not an 'alright bloke'. What did you learn of Sherlock?" Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. John felt slightly bad. He'd forgotten about Sherlock and what had happened with Moriarty the moment Moriarty had taken an interest in him. Because no one ever took an interest in him.

"He was wearing his pyjamas, bag of frozen peas on his head. I think him and Moriarty have had some sort of argument, but I'm not sure. He's injured, though. He's got a cut on his head but I think he'll be okay. It's scabbed over at any rate. Moriarty made him go and get dressed and I left before he came back down." John explained. "He went for the glove though." He added, as an afterthought. Mycroft was silent. John's phone dinged and he withdrew it.

_Thanks for the glove._

And then, almost immediately after:

_See? Didn't put the SB this time._

John laughed, before tapping away a reply. Mycroft was watching him intently.

_Well done, you're learning XD_

He hit send, and another one came through after a minute.

_Don't do smilies. Do you want to meet up tomorrow?_

John craned his neck to look at Mycroft, who nodded a bit too enthusiastically.

_Sure. What time? I'll probably turn up somewhere at some point._

_Awesome. See you tomorrow then._

_See you tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	7. Cough Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. This chapter is a lil bit angstier than the others, but I think the end kind of makes up for it a bit. So... yeah. Enjoy :)
> 
> Also, Nick Clarke is the name of a character in one of the books that Jim gave John. Just incase you get confused or anything :)

He feverishly turned the page over, drinking in the new found information. Doctor Kill was planning an attack on Amelia Quince's house, to kidnap her and hold her to ransom. Nick Clarke had just discovered the new found information by infiltrating Kill's secret vaults in Florida. John was lapping up the overly clichéd plot, loving every predictable twist and turn.

By far, Nick Clarke was John's favourite secret agent. The man was classy, smug, powerful, and had the greatest comebacks known to mankind. Clarke was all the things John wanted to be, but never had a chance of becoming. John was too modest, and too shy to ever be as kick-ass as Clarke. Look at yesterday; he'd gone into a place, full of aspirations in helping someone, only to emerge half an hour later arms laden with books from the guy who'd he was supposed to hate. In John's mind, he was a failure.

Yet, it suddenly dawned on him that he wasn't a failure at all. How could he be? Because Sherlock had text him asking to meet up– today. He would still be helping Mycroft, and also helping Sherlock at the same time. His thoughts were thrown out of his mind along with the book in his hand as a new entity crashed into him.

“Fucking- You're an asshole, Greg.” John swore, bending down and picking up the book, but not disguising how happy he was to see Greg Lestrade. 

“Nice to see you too.” Greg grinned, as he and John continued walking in the direction of school.

Baskerville High School was a dull, pathetic excuse for a school. It was a stones throw from one the roughest areas in London, and as a result it's peeling green gates were open to all the throwbacks. John often wondered whether that's what made him cautious of most people. It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone who had heard of the school if there were reports of a stabbing. It was that kind of place. Lots of overly opinionated and immensely thick fools who thought they ruled the world. John hated people like that. It wasn't all bad though. He had Greg, Molly and Mike. Who were all great. 

“Have you seen your Dad?” Greg asked, slightly grimly. Greg loathed John's Dad with a passion, and had promised John on many occasions that 'the moment I become a policeman, John, your Dad is going behind bars.' To which John almost always replied: 'with what reason?', because if the police ever did take an interest, their mind would suddenly change. Greg would then crack his knuckles, giving John a smirk, and saying: 'because he is a wanker.' 

It never failed to cheer John up. 

“Nope. Not since... Friday? Maybe? Friday yeah.” John said, trying to piece together the days. Had it really been that long? Only last Friday he'd stormed into to Police Station, where he'd met Sherlock Holmes. It was strange to think that today was only Monday. 

“Bloody hell. Aren't you worried?” Greg was staring at John intently, who was throwing the book in the air and then catching it again. John was worried. As much as he hated to admit it. He hated the man, but he couldn't help but feel a knot tightening in his gut as he remembered that the last thing he'd heard of his step-dad was that he was pissed off, and he'd heard that from Sherlock. Who was in the middle of a very dangerous web which John wasn't entirely sure he knew about, not that he knew much himself. He only knew what Mycroft told him.

“Eh.” He shrugged. “It's not like he's never gone walkabout before. I'm just glad for the quiet.” Greg grinned at his response. 

A short five minutes later, John was settled down in his English class, waiting for the usual storm of dickheads to shut up. The clever ones were the worst. The high flyers with the good grades, who the teachers would never tell off because they made the school look slightly better at the end of the day. John loved English, but he hated the class. They were too loud. Loud, he could handle. He was loud enough himself. But they were a different loud. Screeching across the classroom. Which was why John often found himself sitting at the back of the classroom, doing his work but also spending a lot of time talking to Greg.

Every so often, one of the members of staff who nobody knew what their job was would walk in and ask to speak to a student. Everyone always prayed it was them, just so that they'd have an excuse to get out of the lesson. John never hoped it was him. He knew what it usually meant. You were either failing, or your parents had come to take you to the dentist. So today when the door creaked open, and Mrs Hudson stepped inside, and asked for John- that was when he knew that something was up.

John sidled uneasily out of his chair, Greg him anxiously. The whole classes gaze was fixated on him, probably because they were all unaware of John's existence, but more likely because John was never taken out of lessons. Ever. Not even to go to the dentist.

He cast a sideways glance at Greg, before disappearing through the door, hearing the chatter recuperate and then be silenced by the shutting door. If he felt separate before, he felt even more so now.

As far as John was concerned, Mrs Hudson was an absolute dear. She was nearly always smiling, and she received the highest respect from all of the students, even the nastiest ones wouldn't think about insulting her. Her favourite student was John though. She'd always deny that she did in fact have a favourite, but her favourite was definitely John. Today she was looking pitiful and worn, two expressions that didn't suit the woman at all.

She led him along a corridor, before turning into her office which she shared with another woman, Mrs Turner.

"Could you excuse us for a second, please?" Mrs Hudson asked Mrs Turner softly, who nodded with a knowing jolt of the head and left as commanded. "Please sit down, John. Would you like a cough sweet?"

One of John's favourite things about Mrs Hudson was wherever she went she carried a small bag of cough sweets. They were rubbish at soothing throats; but the fared pretty well as hard boiled sweets. He never passed up an opportunity for one of her sweets.

"Yes please." He said, gladly accepting one and unwrapping it while he sat down.

"John... I have to tell you..." John could hear the edge in her voice, like she was holding back tears. "Your step-father was found dead this morning."

John's teeth suddenly bit on to the sugary sweet, causing it to split in two and generating a tooth ache. He heard the crack in his mouth as it cut through the new found silence of the room. His stepfather was dead? A million questions were running around John's head, but his expression was blank.

“Oh John.” Mrs Hudson encased him in a warm, tender hug. The type you usually get from your Nan when you're about to go home. John just blinked. 

“... Does Harry know?” He asked quietly. Wondering whether she would be able to mask her happiness. 

John wasn't happy though. He was whizzing through every single possibility in his head. How had he died? Why had he died? How long had he been dead? Did Sherlock know what was going on? Sherlock had said that he was annoyed, so that meant that Sherlock must have met the man. Was it his own doing? Was this something to do with the mole that the letter spoke of? Did Mycroft know what was going on? He barely registered Mrs Hudson talking.

“No. We thought it best if you told her. She's a bit unpredictable...” Mrs Hudson smiled kindly. John knew what she meant. Harry was crazy and proud. She would be over the moon about the man's demise, and she wouldn't hide it. She'd probably say that she'd murdered the man herself, just because she could. She was that kind of person. John nodded stiffly at Mrs Hudson's response. 

“Can I call someone?” He asked.

“Of course! Would you like me to-” Her eyes strayed towards the door.

“Uhm, yes, please. If you wouldn't mind.” He said, withdrawing his phone as Mrs Hudson scarpered from the office. He quickly found the number he was looking for, and pressed dial. It rang three times before the deep voice of the other end answered.

“Sherlock Brooke.” John sighed as he heard Sherlock's voice. 

“Do you know anything about my step-fathers death?” John asked curtly, getting straight to the point. Sherlock paused on the other end.

“Your father is dead?”

“Yes.”

John could've sworn that the gits eyes lit up on the other end. 

“Fascinating! What morgue is he in? Do you know what shoe size he is? If it's 11 then great, I've run out...” Sherlock continued rambling about his lack of feet to experiment on.

“No, Sherlock. Besides, he's a 10.”

“Was.” Sherlock corrected. John scowled.

“Do you know anything about it?” John growled.

“About what?” If Sherlock was there, John would have given him the both scornful look possible.

“What the fuck do you think, Sherlock? The last person I know who saw him was you. You said he was annoyed. Why was he annoyed, Sherlock?” There was a pause on the other end. John was standing up now, gazing out of Mrs Hudson's rained flecked windows as the sky grew darker. A bunch of year 7's wearing PE kits were huddled together on the field. 

“I... I might have gotten involved.” Sherlock said finally. His voice was dripping with regret.

“You got involved? Did you kill him?” John said sternly. He wouldn't put it passed anyone right now, not even Sherlock. 

“What? No! Of course not. I'd have hidden the body better...” Sherlock could probably register that that wasn't the best thing to say, because he quickly put in: “Look, I think your Dad was up to something. Where are you?” John was resigned to believe him. 

“I'm at school.” John replied flatly, running a finger along the filling between window and wall while finding a dip and picking at it. 

“I'll be over there as soon as I can.” Sherlock promised. John was pulling the ear away from his phone, ready to hang up, when Sherlock spoke again. “John. It'll be okay.”

He was certain that that was the most thoughtful thing Sherlock had ever said to anyone. He hung up.

Almost immediately afterwards, there was a knock on the door. Mrs Hudson poked her head around. 

“John, I've just heard that there's a man downstairs for you. He's waiting in Reception.” John nodded. His body was somehow taking over all of his actions, allowing his brain to formulate questions in it's own slightly stunned way. “Do you want me to walk you down?” She asked kindly, but John shook his head. 

“No. Thank you. I'm going to take the long way.” Mrs Hudson just nodded before slipping away again. Most members of staff would implore with him not to detour, but the man waiting for him was undoubtedly Mycroft, and John wasn't in a hurry to speak to him.

–

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock had snatched his scarf from the hook next to the front door and was tying it around his neck as Jim snuck up behind him.

“Out.” Sherlock replied coldly. After John had hung up, Sherlock had set to work immediately on finding out which school he went to based on where he lived. Baskerville High School was the closest to where John lived, and he could have sworn he'd mentioned it while talking about Rugby before.

“Out where?” Sherlock sighed, pulling on a pair of gloves. Incidentally the same ones that John had given him. Sherlock still wasn't quite sure as to how that had happened. 

“John's step-fathers died.” Jim's eyebrow arched.

“Oh? So you're going to dissect his body? Sherlock, we've been through this before...”

“No.” Sherlock cut him off. “A friends step-father has just died. I'm going to make sure he's okay.” If it was possible (which Sherlock thought it wasn't), Jim's eyebrow rose higher up his forehead. 

“A friend?”

“An acquaintance.” Sherlock corrected himself quickly. But not quickly enough.

“Yesterday you said you didn't know him.” Jim pointed out. 

“Nice to know you've been talking to Sebastian about me.” Sherlock said, registering the fact that Jim knew what he'd said of John, even though he'd only said it to Sebastian. He then opened the front door and left, leaving a very difficult to read Jim behind him.

–

John was right. It was Mycroft waiting for him. He was sat on one of the vile dark blue chairs that all the ill kids sat on while they waited for their parents to collect them. John was pleased to see that Mycroft was frowning slightly at a boy who'd just walked in complaining of a headache. 

“He's not really ill.” He drawled lazily, pointing at the boy with his umbrella as John walked over to him. 

“Welcome to High School.” John said. “Now can you tell me what the hell is going on?”

Mycroft drew the umbrella back down to rest at his side. John could tell that he was steeling himself for something, and it made him slightly anxious. 

“John... It may have occurred to you that your step-father wasn't all what he seemed to be...” Mycroft started.

“It did cross my mind, yeah.” Mycroft frowned at how casually John was talking. 

“Intelligence suggests that he was in close ties with Moriarty. We didn't know this, and quite frankly you meeting Sherlock has shed light onto a whole new branch of criminality that we didn't perviously know about. We owe you a thanks for that, John.” Mycroft's voice was low. John was staring into nothingness, trying to take it all in. 

“What's the point in saying thank you? A man is dead, and reading in between the lines a whole lot more people have died because of him.” John said. He didn't know whether to be sad, or happy. Right now however, rage was swarming in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft didn't say anything, but pursed his lips together tightly.

He needed to leave. None of this would have happened if Mycroft hadn't shown up. He wasn't sure how he'd came to this conclusion; a part of him was begging with himself not to do anything stupid. To but his head down and let it all wash over. He knew he was only blaming Mycroft because there was no one else there for him to blame. 

John always prided himself on being able to keep calm and collected. People always said how nice he was. People at school didn't know of his existence because he'd rather not walk around with a label pinned to his forehead. But he did have a label, and he hated it. 

He hated being John Watson, the quiet, shy, nerd boy who was a keen rugby player but often got overlooked because he didn't want to create a fuss. He put up with everything and everyone and he was sick of it. Because he wasn't weak. He was the opposite. 

The rage was quickly unfurling into a hurricane now. Mycroft was using him, too. Mycroft was only using him to get his own brother back. His Mum wouldn't miss him. She was always far too sloshed, and barely remembered his name. Sober or not. Harry could fend for herself, now that Jones was gone. Besides, the only reason they got on in the first place was because they had to. She loathed him. She wouldn't miss him. No one needed him. Not really. 

John slowly got up and started making his way towards the door leading out of the school.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked, standing up and talking to the back of John's head.

“Away.” John replied calmly, but his rigid body language suggested otherwise.

“Away? Away where?”

“Just... Anywhere.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was shaking madly. 

“John, come and sit back down.” Mycroft said as soothingly as he could manage.

“No. Because I've had it to people telling me what to do and walking all over me. I'm sick of being ignored, I'm sick of getting stick for just trying to get on with my life! No one needs me, no one wants me. My damn English teacher didn't know who I was when Mrs Hudson came to get me! Nobody cares. I don't care. I'm fucking leaving.” He finished, cheeks flushed red and fists clenched. He turned and took a couple of steps, before Mycroft spoke.

“John.” He said flatly. “Sherlock needs you.” 

John just laughed and walked from the building. 

– 

Sherlock stormed through the doorway to Baskerville High Reception, earning a stern look from the woman behind the desk. The place was buzzing with policemen, and Sherlock's stomach dropped as his eyes fell on the man he'd bumped into at The Daint. He didn't want to be spotted by him. He wanted to find John. He strode tersely towards the woman behind the desk.

"Could you tell me where I could find John Watson, please?" He asked, rapping his fingers across the desk in anticipation. 

"You and everyone else in here want to know that." She said, idly sorting through some files. 

"What?" Where was John?

"He took off. That's why all the police are here. Bit excessive if you ask me... He won't have gone far. Especially not one of the goody-two shoe types like Watson." Sherlock snarled at her. 

"A bit excessive? John's step-father has just died, and now he's run off. Never say that anything that will go towards aiding John's safety is excessive." Sherlock spat. 

He span around, not waiting to see the Receptionist's reaction. He glanced around the room, and accidentally made eye contact with the umbrella-wielding man. The mans reaction was blank, but he tilted his head slightly. Sherlock didn't know what it meant, but he didn't care either. All he knew was that he had to find John. He left the school calmly, but as soon as he was out of the gate he began sprinting down the local roads, trying to locate John. 

The rain that had been trying to fall earlier had made the grass damp, but Sherlock strode through the tall tufts anyway. The ends of his trouser legs were quickly becoming sodden. 

He had eventually spotted John as he sprinted passed the park. The dot sitting huddled beneath a tree could only be him. He was resting against the large tree trunk, ignoring the bugs and small insects that crawled around with his eyes shut tight. Sherlock didn't say anything as he approached the teenager with his arms wrapped around his knees.

Instead, he slowly crouched down onto the floor and sat beside John, who made no movement to indicate his acknowledgement of Sherlock being there. Apart from the fact that his breathing didn't seem to know what to do. He was trying to calm himself down, inhaling vast quantities of air, and then exhaling deeply again afterwards.

Sherlock lifted up his arm over John's head, wrapping it around John's shoulder. John made no sound of protest. He gently pulled John closer towards himself, and then tightened his grip. John fell into the curve of Sherlock's body, with his head now resting on the section between Sherlock's armpit and chest. 

How long they remained like that; Sherlock hugging John tightly into his body, he didn't know. But Sherlock was desperate to fidget. He had twigs sticking into his butt. He'd never comforted anyone before. He had been staring intently at a dog who had escaped its owner, but for a fleeting moment he allowed himself a glance at John- just to make sure that he was alright. John was still using Sherlock as a support, but his head had moved slightly. He was now snoring softly against Sherlock's rib cage, breathing completely in sync with the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock sighed. He was all wrapped up in a suit and his Belstaff coat. John was only wearing a thin school shirt and cheap blazer, so as the light rain quickened and changed direction so that it came down from the sky at a horrible angle, John started to shiver. The tree was protection, but it wasn't exactly an umbrella. Half of the leaves were missing. 

Rather awkwardly, he slipped his arm out of side where John wasn't dozing, and the arched his back so that he could retrieve the coat from behind him. The was no way he would be able to get the coat from his trapped arm, so instead he swung it around over John with it still covering his arm.

John rubbed his head against Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock thought he was going to wake up. But he didn't. Instead John snuggled himself lower down into Sherlock's body, muttering something in his sleep. Sherlock smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? Please let me know what you think, and thank you to everyone who has left kudos and bookmarked and everything. You're all great :)


	8. Knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil bit of violence in this one. Just giving you a heads up :)

Someone was shouting his name. The note of desperation in their voice made something gurgle inside of his stomach. He recognised the voice. It was usually associated with benign happiness, but now it was filled with hatred and anger. He didn't want to go in that direction. Why would anyone want to go near to a person who sounded so... Evil?

He stumbled over a thick tuft of grass as he clambered up the hill. His pyjama bottoms were sodden with the rain that hadn't quite dispersed from the atmosphere yet. The shouting was fading away. Good.

His hair was plastered to his head and he lazily pushed it out of his eyes, allowing him to squint across the hazy fields that lay before him. He knew that the green fields rolled on for miles, but a sharp wall of fog prevented him from seeing that far. There was a road though. He knew that there was a road. If he could just reach it...

“William!”

“Mycroft!”

He screamed.

"Holy shit!"

Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was his own screaming, or John's swearing which woke him up. But either way his eyes flashed open. "Sherlock! What the fuck?!"

John was staring at Sherlock, blue eyes the size of dinner plates as he gaped at him. Sherlock clenched his jaw and then opened it several times. He looked like a confused goldfish.

"I..." Sherlock started, standing up painfully. All of his limbs had fallen asleep too apparently.

He hadn't that dream in a long time. A really long time. It was slowly fading away from his mind, but the door remained open. A door to a dreadful place. Only, he couldn't shut it. He didn't know how.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked, the Belstaff had fallen off him now, and it lay bored on his lap.

"Yes." Sherlock said quickly, exaggerating the firmness. John shot him a look which clearly said 'I don't believe you'. So Sherlock tried to expand on his point. “There was a spider on me. I don't like spiders.” He shrugged sitting back down, and John's expression relaxed somewhat.

They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock turning the dream over and over in his mind, while John tried to work out his next plan of action. Both of them felt slightly lost.

 

Sherlock, for one, hadn't had that dream for a while. At least two months. It was his recurring dream. Resurfacing from the gloomy depths and aggravating Sherlock's already burning curiosity.

Within the last few years, it had spread itself out. Two months was the longest he'd gone without seeing those fields; the shortest was less than twenty four hours.

He was always running. Always. Never looking back. That's what irked Sherlock the most. He wanted to know what he was running from, but the cry of 'William' always woke him up before he had chance.

A black car slowly rolled onto the car park, and Sherlock stood up, brushing the twigs away lazily. He knew that they wouldn't let him be gone long.

"Is that for you?" John asked, nodding towards the rather nice, slick vehicle. Sherlock nodded stiffly in reply.

The door opened and a man got out. John squinted, as it was difficult to make out defining features from the distance they were at. Nevertheless, the man was easily identifiable. It was the same man who had been at St Bart's. One of the men who was looking for Sherlock.

The moment Sherlock saw the man, his body went rigid. He moved swiftly, blocking John's view of the man.

"Sherlock? What're you-" John was interrupted as he craned his neck.

"Sherlock! Are you going to introduce us?" Sebastian called across the field. He was tossing something into the air and catching it. It looked like a tennis ball. Sherlock swore at his shoe.

"Go away, Sebastian." He spat. John could sense the crackling hostility between the two. He decided to stand up himself then. Sebastian was drawing closer, and the tennis ball was now easily recognisable as an apple. 

"You must be John." Sebastian said, smiling while grabbing John's hand and wringing it. "That was some very nice coffee you made the other day." John's neck went pink. "And I'm awfully sorry to hear about your step father too..." 

Sherlock's stance changed the moment he realised what Sebastian was about to say. John had literally learnt two hours ago of his step-fathers death. He didn't need a prick like Sebastian bringing it up. 

Sebastian raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who didn't budge. John scooted around him.

"Yeah. It's a bit..." He hesitated "rubbish." He finished on a monotone. Sebastian smiled apologetically. 

"Tell me, John..." Sebastian brought the apple to his mouth and bit into it. It crunched loudly. "What's your favourite animal?"

"My what?"

"Enough!" Sherlock roared. But Sebastian was ignoring him. 

"I rather like Moles, myself... Very small, very cute-" he winked at Sherlock "easy to kill..."

There was a brief pause before Sherlock's fist met Sebastian's face. 

Sebastian's head just turned slightly, as his tanned cheek slowly reddened. 

"Now Sherlock... That wasn't nice." 

Sherlock's brain was a storm of mixed emotions. He was extremely angry. Angry because what the hell was Sebastian doing? Annoyed, because Sebastian knew about Mr Jones's true business, which was something that he didn't understand or know yet. Despite the anger however, his brain was still wiring.

"You knew about that letter. You know about the 'mole'. You're SM! You sent it? You sent that letter?" Sherlock was on a tirade. "Why are you dragging John into this? He-" It was Sherlock's turn to receive the punch, and Sebastian delivered harder than Sherlock. 

John yelled as he watched Sherlock fall to the floor, stand up again, then only to be head butted. He was unconscious.

John ran at Sebastian and kicked him in the knee. Sebastian somehow managed to deflect it though, catching John's leg with his own and then twisting it. John bit his tongue as he felt his knee cap twist.

"Don't. Breathe. A. Word." Sebastian snarled each individual letter. He then grabbed  John's leg with his callus littered hands and twisted fiercely. It popped. Pain exploded throughout his leg, and he crumpled onto the floor, his other knee giving away. 

Sebastian picked Sherlock up in a fire mans lift, and carried him across the field, whistling a God awful tune. John was shouting every word that flew into his brain. Some very unsavoury words were chosen. 

As Sebastian heaved Sherlock into the back seat of the car, John began fumbling in his pockets, biting back the tears that had unwittingly escaped due to the pain soaring through his leg. He found the number he was looking for and pressed dial. 

"John?"

"He's taken Sherlock. He said something and Sherlock got pissed off and punched him and now he's unconscious and he's taken him." John took in a great shuddering breath. His leg was stretched out in front of him. 

"What? Calm down!" Mycroft ordered through the phone.

"He said your name! We both fell asleep and then I woke up and he started fidgeting in his sleep and then he said your name! Then he woke up." 

"John, calm down." 

"No I can't bloody calm down! He's dislocated my kneecap and I can't do anything and Sherlock's in danger. I know he is. Mycroft, you have to do something." John was sobbing blindly. It was all growing too much for him to handle. The pain, the prospect of Sherlock being in danger... It was too much. 

"John." Mycroft said firmly. "Who dislocated your knee cap?" 

John ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"Sebastian." He said finally. He was pretty certain Mycroft swore. 

"We're coming to get you. Your phone is being tracked."

John thanked him, and then hung up. Praying to anyone who'd listen that Sherlock would be okay, and wondering how it had all gone so desperately wrong so dastardly quickly. 

–

“How does your knee feel?” John rolled his eyes at the ridiculous question.

“Like my knee was dislocated and the popped back into place.” He said cheerfully. The nurse just smiled at him.

“Well, you're being very brave.”

John scowled. Being brave? What a ridiculous thing to say. How could he be the brave one? He'd cried, for God's sake. That wasn't bravery. Sixteen year old boys don't cry. If anyone was the brave one, it was Sherlock. Sherlock because he'd had to put up with that for seven years. Seven years ago John was a chubby nine year old with an obsession for Star Wars. When Sherlock was nine, he'd been ripped away from his family and brought into a strange new world. Therefore, Sherlock was the brave one.

Mycroft had been to see him. He (along with some other government officials who had turned up), told John that he would be spending the night in hospital. They said it was just to make sure that his knee was okay. Through John suspected differently. Otherwise, why would there be so many men strolling around in black suits? And this certainly wasn't a bog standard NHS Hospital either. This was a privately run; privately funded hospital. John could tell. 

He was lying in a hospital bed. Bored out of his brain. He was pretty certain that if they gave him some crutches, he could quite happily hobble about.

“There's a man here to see you. A Mr Holmes?” The nurse said, smiling at him. 

“Urm, yeah.” John replied awkwardly. Not entirely sure what to say. 

“He'll be here in a moment.” Did this woman ever stop smiling? It was making John's head hurt. Not the mention the fact that she was a very pretty lady and he couldn't stop himself from blushing whenever she smiled. She had to stop.

John was completely relieved when she left, but then Mycroft entered and his brief second of non-awkward silence was over.

“John.” He said, walking through the door and shutting it behind him. John didn't say anything as Mycroft pulled up a chair. “We've had some developments..” John decided to cut him off then.

“About Sherlock? Is he okay? I-” Mycroft held up a hand a John fell silent. “I want to know if he's okay.” He finished quietly. 

“As do I, John. But I have news about your step-father.” 

John frowned sadly. He wanted news about Sherlock. He didn't particularly care for a dead man. Especially a horrible dead man. He wanted to know about a brilliant, alive, teenager. But then he remembered what Sebastian had said. What Sherlock had said. Something about...

“Is this about the mole?” John asked. Mycroft's face went stony. 

“How do you know...?”

“Well he wasn't going to be asking me what my favourite animal is? Was he? I may not be as observant as Sherlock but I can tell when somethings off. Anyway, Sherlock freaked when Sebastian brought it up. He was pretty tense already, but he flipped as soon as Sebastian started talking to me. I think he knows something.” John explained.  
“Your step-father was working in close ties with Moriarty and what he does. This mole, whoever he is, was going to take down both your step-father and Moriarty. I'm not sure whether Sherlock knows what Jim's profession is, but with the likes of Sebastian prowling around he's sure to have realised somethings going on. It's reasonable to presume that he worked something out about the mole, which is why he reacted when Sebastian turned up. He- he's starting to remember.”

John gave him a questioning look, so Mycroft decided to elaborate. 

“I think he's starting to piece things together.” Mycroft supplied. “I've allowed myself to be spotted by Sherlock on several occasions, even before you got involved. Moriarty seems to have cottoned on to this, and I fear I have made the situation much worse for Sherlock as a result.”

John blinked. That would explain why...

“He said your name. Earlier. I said on the phone?”

“I'm sorry John. You were blubbering so much I couldn't make out what you were saying.” Mycroft apologised. John was certain that this was a rarity (for Mycroft to apologise), so he accepted it before continuing. 

“Anyway. I woke up because I could feel...” He remembered how he'd woken up using Sherlock's legs for pillows. “He was shaking, in his sleep. Muttering a hell of a lot, too. He kept muttering William, over and over again. Until he suddenly shouted 'Mycroft', and woke himself up.” John explained. Mycroft was frowning deeply.

“He said my name? He definitely said my name?” Mycroft questioned tentatively. John nodded firmly. “This changes a lot. It means he's starting to remember... John, this is good news. Very good news.” Mycroft looked as though Christmas had come early upon learning that Sherlock had said his name. Like a parent when they first hear their child speak.

“It's coming. We're going to have to act. As soon as possible. The intel we've gathered isn't strong, but it's sufficient enough...” He stood up, grabbing his umbrella and pulling out his phone.

“Sorry,” John said “what's coming?”

Mycroft turned around, his face had turned sorrowful again. He didn't say anything else before leaving the room, leaving a very confused John behind him.

If he wanted to find out what was going on, truly, without having Mycroft try to be dainty about it, then he would have to do it himself. He pulled out his phone, and called Greg.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Greg.” John smiled at nothing in particular at hearing his friends voice.

“Jesus Christ?! Where are you?!” John almost laughed.

“Now, I don't want you to panic, but I need you to grab my stuff. Preferably, go to my house, ask to go to my room. Mum'll let you. If she won't, Harry will, and I need you to get all of books from my desk and bring them to me.”

“Why can't you get them yourself?” Greg asked on the other end.   
“Hospital.” John said simply. He had to pull the phone away from his ear as Greg shouted into his phone.

“What the fuck? John! Why are you in hospital?” 

“It's a really long story.” John smiled sadly, running a hand through his hair. 

“Tell it me when I get there.” Greg said. “All the books, right?” 

“Yep.”

“Right. Which hospital?”

“That old posh one by the park.”

“Alright. See you in about an hour.” Greg hung up and John lay the phone to rest by his side. Surely Jim had given him those books for a reason? Not just because John liked reading? He'd been thinking about it as the doctors pushed his knee back into place, and the idea of a message being implanted into the books was addling him. He didn't quite know how the idea had formulated, but it was there nevertheless.

He knew it was a feeble attempt, but it was the best he could do in the situation he was in. He just prayed that whatever the books told him, they'd bring Sherlock back to safety.

\--

How many times was he going to find himself waking up after Sebastian knocked him out? Because Sherlock wasn't sure he could tolerate much more of it. 

"Where's John?" He said immediately, sitting upright and glaring at Jim, who was standing by the window. 

Sherlock watched as Jim's shoulders loosened, and his head drooped. He sighed sadly. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to deal with Jim's performance. So he climbed out of the bed he'd been lying in and stood resolute. He was still wearing his suit. 

"Where's John?" He asked again, more firmly this time. Anger was gripping to his every word. Still Jim didn't answer. 

"You don't get to ask questions." Jim stated, still not facing Sherlock. 

"That's stupid. I can ask all the questions I want." Sherlock retorted. He steeled him self before asking again. "Where's John?"

"Oh dear..." Jim shook his head, and Sherlock yelped as something seared his ankle. 

"What the-" There it was again. "Are you electrocuting me?" Sherlock asked incredulously. And there it was again.

"The more you ask questions the more you get shocked." Jim teased, his Irish accented voice rising several octaves. 

"But why?" He realised his mistake as soon as he said it. His ankle was tingling and slowly going numb. 

Jim still hadn't turned to face him. Instead, he called to someone who Sherlock didn't know. They were alone in the room. Who was he... A red dot blinked in the corner of his eye. Of course. Cameras.

"Let's bring it up a notch, shall we?" Jim spoke as though he were suggesting they dance. Lifting up his arm and spinning has hand around to indicate turning a dial.

"You still haven't answered my question." Sherlock pointed out, careful to phrase it as a statement. Jim sighed. Everyone was sighing recently. Were they all so content with life?

"John's currently in a hospital somewhere getting his knee popped back into place." 

"You dislocated his knee?!" Sherlock almost yelled, and he realised he'd asked a question the moment his ankle went numb. Wouldn't hurt anymore though, he supposed. He was already raising the leg, to avoid putting any pressure on it. God, did those shocks kill. Yet, the numbness meant more questions. He could tolerate it. 

"Yep." Jim replied, popping the 'p'. "Well, not personally. Sebastian did though." He shrugged. "Hang on. I'm not supposed to be answering your questions... That's not how it works." Turning to face Sherlock and grinning wickedly. 

Sherlock was straining hard to think. All of his attention was being diverted to the ankle situation. 

"Okay then. Elaborate." Sherlock dead panned. Moriarty's eyebrows shot up. "That was a demand. Not a question." 

"Zap him anyway for cockiness." Jim shrugged. Sherlock slammed his foot back to the ground as the electricity shot through it. Apparently the voltage had been raised. "And no. I don't take orders from you, you take orders from me. Disobey the orders and-" Sherlock's ankle vibrated horribly. 

"I get zapped." The finished the sentence for him, panting slightly as his leg convulsed. Jim smirked. He waltzed around so that he was mere inches from Sherlock, who was pleading to be somewhere else and in a different situation. Why couldn't he be back at the park with John?

"Pets need to be trained." Jim shrugged matter-of-factly. 

"I'm not your pet." 

"Honey, you were my pet the moment I adopted you from Holmesville." 

Sherlock blinked. Holmesville? Surely that wasn't a real place? He made a mental note to Google it. This was one the first things Jim had ever said about where Sherlock was before he was here. He wasn't going to forget about it.

"I'm still not agreeing to this." Sherlock seethed. 

"No ones asking you to agree with it, Sherlock." He lightly stepped across the room towards Sherlock. Sherlock shut his eyes as Jim reached up and stroked Sherlock's hair. 

"Stop." He snarled. He opened his eyes to find Jim smirking at him.

“You don't get to give the orders.” Jim waggled his eyebrows, but backing away nonetheless, which Sherlock was completely grateful for. Had Jim always been like this?

“So now what?” Sherlock braced himself for the shock. “You're not going to manipulate me. What's changed? Why is this happening? What's John got to do with this?” His leg shook painfully as the voltage increased. 

Jim just smiled a toothy smile. It made Sherlock's insides squirm uncomfortably.

“There's a war coming, Sherlock. And you're finally going to do what you were always supposed to do.” Jim replied silkily. He strode past Sherlock, ruffling a the knot of black hair as he went, before pulling the door open and sliding gracefully through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... How was that?


	9. Metal

John didn't quite understand why he had to stay within the confides of the hospital. His knee was fine (as far as he was concerned), and he was positively itching to make some progress in finding Sherlock. But Mycroft had stepped on that idea the moment it had tumbled from his mouth.

"No. Absolutely not. You were involved too much to begin with. Any further, and we may as well sign you over to him." 

By him, Mycroft meant Moriarty. Through Mycroft's own mole with Moriarty, they'd learnt that rather than dislocating John's knee, Sebastian was supposed to have taken John, too. Apparently he'd gotten too carried away. Mycroft informed John that often they have to stick to a specific plan. After John had mentioned the taunting, Mycroft decided that that's what distracted him from taking John. It didn't help matters though, because now suspicions were growing in that Sebastian had his own personal vendetta to solve with John. What that was, was anyone's guess.

Now John was beginning to understand why he wasn't allowed out of the hospital, and why there were so many armed guards around. They were protecting him. The moment he realised that was the same moment he realised how deeply he'd managed to sink into the pile of shit. He was just wading before, but now he was practically swimming in the stuff, and the stench was making him nauseous. 

If Moriarty had wanted John too, then why had he let him walk away freely before? Why had he even given him the books? Was it a ruse? Was it a readily planted cover up that he still hadn't worked out? John knew it was something, but he couldn't quite work out what. It was something bad though, he could feel it. 

He worked out that he'd been sitting in the hospital bed for nearly an hour now, and was waiting for the arrival of Greg with much anticipation. There was so much that Greg needed to know, because John needed to rely on him so much given his current situation. Besides, it was tiresomely serious in the hospital and John needed a laugh- which is what he was sure Greg would be able to provide.

He heard him before he saw him.

Although, he couldn't exactly tell that it was Greg. All he knew was that someone was shouting very loudly, before the door was thrown open and a very flustered Greg stood in it's place, carrying two large plastic bags full to the brim with books.

"Please, please tell these people that I'm not about to make an attempt on your life." He practically begged. John's laugh however seemed to be enough to call off the guards, as they soon left. Greg didn't share the laughter however. He took one look at John and his frown sank lower down his chin.

"Alright then. Who do I need to beat up?" He said, and John couldn't tell whether he was joking or not. John just laughed again.

"No one. Well, yes, actually. I do need you to help me beat some people up." John started picking at a loose piece of thread on his sleeve.

"What happened?" Greg asked. John winced as Greg opted for the bed rather than the chair to sit on, and the added weight caused the mattress to dip, which caused John's leg to move.

"You can have the short story or the long story." John replied, readjusting his leg slightly.

"Long." Greg stated firmly, and John sighed before launching into an explanation of everything that had happened, from meeting Sherlock at the Police Station, to St Bart's, to the library, meeting Mycroft, going to see Sherlock, the books (Greg's face lit up as John mentioned those "Aha!" He had said "That's what the books are for! I looked like a right idiot carrying them down the street") and then to finding out that his step-father was dead. His voice tightened as the events of the last few hours resurfaced. 

The death of his step-father was what he could handle; but it was the sudden realisation that Sherlock had been running around suburban London trying to find him, and when he did manage to locate him, allowed for John to fall asleep on him. That's what got John. Because in doing so, it had led to Sherlock's somewhat brutal kidnapping. A kidnapping that should have been his, too.

"Bloody hell." Greg said finally as John finished. "We need to get this kid back." John nodded in agreement. 

"One problem though, Mycroft said I'm not allowed to leave the hospital yet. I haven't even seen Mum or Harry since this morning. God knows how they're handling all this. I don't suppose they know about how much shit I'm currently in. It wouldn't surprise me if they don't even know I'm in the hospital." Greg was watching John thoughtfully.

"Do you miss him?" He asked quietly. 

"Who?" 

"Jones." 

John thought. He didn't know what to feel, all he knew was that he certainly wasn't regretting the mans death. It meant that Harry and his Mum could live the rest of their lives in peace- which he was exceedingly thankful for. Yet, he also felt regret, because now it was his fault if they were put in danger in any way, especially if Sebastian had a special hatred for him. John always thought that they'd be much happier the moment the man went, but now it was here he wasn't sure what to do. He decided to ignore Greg's question.

"So how are we gonna get to him? Even if we could find a way to get to Sherlock, Moriarty and Sebastian would stop us dead in our tracks..."

Silence filled the room. John could tell that Greg was thinking, either about how John had thrown the question aside, or about how they could get to Sherlock. John had no real need to think anymore though. He'd managed to come up with the rough basis of a plan. 

"We need to get a message to Sherlock." He said, breaking the silence. 

"How though? From what you've told me I imagine that they're gonna be pretty harsh on security." Greg pointed out, and John deflated slightly.

"Yeah, but this is Sherlock, Sherlock who has spent seven years living, and given the guys brain, learning from Moriarty. He'll know how to read secrets codes, he's clever, Greg. Like really clever. Moriarty wouldn't have had him under his roof if he wasn't smart. He can read people. It's brilliant. He just... Observes things. Mycroft does the same thing, I've seen him. He'll know his way around computers and quite possibly know a few good party tricks because of Moriarty, but he's still a Holmes at the end of the day... Bloody intelligent people. He's... He's like the two combined, now. He's... He's Sherlock Holmes." 

"So he'll be able to read the message, then? If we sent one?" Greg asked, but John wasn't listening, because something had set the cogs spinning in his head. 

"No. No wait. Moriarty kidnapped Sherlock when he was nine. From what Mycroft showed me, Sherlock was already a damn intelligent kid. That's his specialty, he deducts. He draws up conclusions based on facts. The stuff that Sherlock can work out... That stuffs got to be useful to a criminal organisation." 

"What're you saying?" Greg asked, urging John to continue.

"I'm saying that Moriarty wants to use Sherlock. Which is probably why he was at The Daint at the same time as Dad..." 

Realisation hit him.

"What?" Greg sounded slightly urgent.

"I need to speak to Mycroft, now." 

\--

The door was locked. He knew it was a pointless attempt the moment he hopped across the room on one foot and turned the handle. Nonetheless, he still swore loudly when it wouldn't budge, before turning towards the bed and flopping on to it with a great huff. 

After wriggling around for several minutes, with arms folded across his chest; he decided that he was uncomfortable, so he started making himself a platform for his foot out of the cushions. It was the ideal spot to assess the damage, and what the hell this new contraption was that was giving him so much agro. 

He bent forward, pulling up his trouser leg. It was bulky, very bulky and grey, but barely noticeable at the same time. It was light as a feather. He tenderly reached for it, but then it started shaking violently, sending his whole leg into a new world of pain.

He grit his teeth as the threw himself backwards back onto the bed. 

"Yeah, urm, don't touch the zapper." A voice sounded through the room. Sherlock swore under his breath again. 

"Thanks." He muttered.

"You're welcome."

How had it come to this? How had he gotten here? He was angry at himself for letting this happen, and positively fuming that he'd managed to get John in such a mess, too. He'd been stupid. Really stupid. John had a dislocated knee because of him. That was something he'd never forgive himself for. Ever. He'd gotten involved too quickly, gotten himself knocked out too quickly. Allowed for John to be attacked. He decided that angry wasn't the right word for his current emotions. 

Rolling over onto his stomach, he slid across the bed and then eased himself off it until he was lying on the floor. After a quick glance at the camera, he realised that it could view every corner of the room. An ideal location. Except...

Still on the floor, Sherlock turned around and crawled under the bed. The camera couldn't see there. It would look like a pathetic attempt at hiding, but Sherlock did in fact have an ulterior motive. 

His mattress was made out of springs. Which meant that the whole thing was supported by thin strips of metal that could be bent easily. Gently, he started ripping the fabric. After five minutes of silent tearing, Sherlock had managed to extract a long piece of the metal, ideal for picking a lock. He graciously slid the metal into his pocket before slithering out from underneath the bed, and back into full visibility of the camera.

He waved at it before sinking back down onto the bed. 

\--

"How clever is Sherlock?" John asked, the moment Mycroft stepped into the room.

"IQ of 190, last time I checked. He even used to have a 'Mind Palace'..." Mycroft chortled. Both John's and Greg's face lit up. 

"What's a Mind Palace?" John quizzed, excitement bubbling inside of him. Mycroft frowned.

"It's a memory technique. It doesn't have to be a Palace, Sherlock was just dramatic and decided to call it that." A strange warmth began circulating John's body. "You store information in a certain place in your mind. Theoretically you can never forget anything, all you have to do is find your way back to the room. Although, he did have the rather unfortunate habit of deleting information."

"Deleting?" John repeated.

"Hmhm. The number of times he deleted our parents birthdays was ridiculous, and mine too, in fact. Never seemed to forget his own, though." Mycroft smiled to himself, John decided to break the moment of Mycroft's happy memories.

"How much could he delete?" 

"Probably everything, if he wanted to. Though I don't think he'd be breathing if he did so." John and Greg exchanged anxious glances.

"Do you think... If he wanted to... Do you think he could delete the first nine years of his life?" John asked slowly. The realisation moment that John had experienced now seemed to be reigning down on Mycroft too. "It would explain why he can't remember anything." John added.

"It's a possibility..." Mycroft considered it slowly. "But it's also slightly ludicrous." He deadpanned, and the smile that had been plastered across John's face vanished. 

John was sure that that's what Sherlock had done though. He was the type of person who would willingly forget nine years of his life, especially a scared nine year old who had been threatened to do so. 

"What else did you want to speak to me about?" Mycroft asked, and John coughed slightly before he launched into his theory.

"Well, my Dad was at The Daint at the same time Sherlock was, who we know was working with Moriarty."

"Go on." Mycroft seemed bored, and was only listening to John because it seemed like the politest thing to do.

"I think Moriarty uses Sherlock as a weapon. Gets him to deduce things about people, then attacks them from their weakest angle."

"This is information that has already been discussed." Mycroft replied curtly. John frowned, as did Greg.

"Just hear me out. I think Moriarty kidnapped Sherlock because he wants him on his side. He wants to use Sherlock's brain. But, I think that Sherlock has more or less started to cotton on to this, which is why he keeps running off. He said your name in his sleep, Mycroft. He's started to remember things. Maybe he deleted that damn palace thing, maybe he didn't. But he knows who you are. At some point he'll remember, and when that happens Moriarty is gonna have one hell of a shit storm on his hands. He's in serious danger. I think that they were close to breaking Sherlock before."

"Before...?" Mycroft egged him on.

"Before he met me." 

\--

He was bored. Horribly and ridiculously bored. 

In his boredom, he'd managed to find a small strip of peeling wallpaper and yanked it from the wall. The plaster that now encompassed half of the wall was a disgusting light brown, and Sherlock sort of regretted pulling the equally as disgusting wallpaper from the wall. He was now however tearing the wallpaper into strips, while sitting cross-legged on the floor. What he was going to do with it, he didn't know. Maybe make a papier-mâché hat. He was still undecided. Either way, his complete absorption of mutilating the wallpaper caused him not notice the door open. 

From his cross-legged position, he jumped to standing as his ankle squirmed while the volts were shot into it.

"Are you going to listen to me now?" Sebastian asked, smirking.

"You're an absolute dickhead." Sherlock snarled. He launched himself at Sebastian, fully ready to do John justice; but then his ankle started screeching at his brain begging him not to cause any trouble, and he crumpled, leg twitching violently as his grit his teeth. Sebastian laughed.

"As well as not asking questions, you're also not allowed to attack anyone." He smiled. He was twirling an apple around in his hands. Sherlock could see that it was the same apple as before, which made him want to ram the piece of fruit down Sebastian's throat. Couldn't he just eat the damn thing?

"You dislocated John's knee." Sherlock snapped, and this time his ankle was left alone, which he was thankful for.

"I could've done a lot worse." 

"Oh yeah?"

"Question! And, yeah. Obviously. Your dear old Jim wanted me to take him with us. But I couldn't do that. Not when he's so much fun..." 

Sherlock nearly launched himself at Sebastian again, but his ankle wasn't really feeling up to it.

"Stay away from him." Sherlock growled.

"Can't do that. Sorry laddy." Sebastian reached forward and patted Sherlock's head. Why was everyone doing that? The moment the hand touched hair Sherlock's rigid stance was overrun by a shiver cascading down his body- and it wasn't from the ankle. He hated Sebastian more than anyone else he had ever met. Just the thought of Sebastian touching him made him feel sick. What had happened to good old Uncle Seb who once helped him collect frogspawn from the pond in the garden?

Sherlock didn't ask for an explanation (if his ankle could talk, the amount of abuse he would be receiving for his benign carelessness for being electrocuted would be unbelievable), yet Sebastian decided to give it anyway.

"You see, Sherlock... I don't like you." Sherlock snorted at the slight understatement. "And see, I told Jim all those moons ago that taking you in was a stupid idea. But who ever listens to me? I did try to be nice to you, honestly, Sherlock, I really did, but it's just not... Me. The really funny thing though is that you think that I'm the main bad guy in this, and I'm really not. Jim's got something truly special lined up for you." Sherlock's body clenched as Sebastian crouched down to eye level with him. Sebastian lift his hand and with his index finger began tracing Sherlock's jawline. Sherlock was breathing heavily, eyes fixated on Sebastian. He wasn't scared. He wasn't. He wasn't going to give Sebastian the satisfaction. Sebastian stopped.

"Oh just you wait..." Sebastian sneered. "I know how this works. I know that you know how this works, too. If you don't start following orders, more than your ankle is going to feel a bit tingly. Maybe your heart too, come to think of it. How much do you care about John Watson?" 

"He means nothing to me." Sherlock replied, a bit too defensively. Sebastian's grin broadened to reveal yellowing teeth. 

"You obviously care about him enough to spy on his step-father for him, and then to run to comfort him when then man's found face down in the pondweed with a bullet stuck in his brain." Sherlock breathed heavily. How did Sebastian know that that's what happened to Mr Jones? Not even John knew. 

"You killed him." Sherlock stated.

"Course I did! Why else do you think we went to that party? The man had a mole in his company- a mole whose true intent was to talk down lovely Jim. We had to destroy the connection. Simple as. Unless... Unless you want to see Jim come to harm, of course?" Sebastian raised his eyebrows, daring Sherlock to say something. 

Of course Sherlock didn't want to see Jim come to any harm. That was a stupid suggestion. Jim was like the older brother he never had. But given his current situation... He wouldn't exactly mind if he broke his foot or something. 

"That's stupid. You know I'd never want to see Jim hurt." Sherlock glowered. 

"And yet..." Sebastian began throwing the apple in the air and catching it with one hand, not even looking at Sherlock anymore. 

"And yet what?" His leg tingled slightly, but the new found curiosity bubbling inside of him managed to silence it a little. 

"And yet you're still so disobedient! Do you know how much money Jim spends on you a month? Not that he cares about money, that was never an issue. But Jim cares for you, a lot, and you've just cast him aside." 

"Maybe I wouldn't be 'casting him aside' if he didn't electrocute me every time I ask a question. Maybe if he let me do what I want for a change. I've never had the experience of being normal- I've never been to school, for God's sake. Maybe if he wasn't so manipulative and controlling; then maybe I wouldn't be so desperate to get away." Sherlock's voice quietened. It was true. Every word of it. "Maybe if when I do start to make friends with someone, he doesn't have someone kill their step-father." His voice was barely audible now, but Sebastian was grinning a horrible, wicked grin, and the apple had stopped being thrown, Sherlock's eyes had strayed away from Sebastian too, but now they were fixated on him again. "This isn't fair on John. None of it. He doesn't deserve any of this." 

"Oh Sherlock... He signed himself up for this the moment he met you. You destroy people, Sherlock. That's why you were never allowed to a school, or to make any proper friends. Look what's happened to this one and you've only known him three days. You're trouble, Sherlock. There is nothing for you in this world except to do what Jim asks of you. You have to forget about John. On this side, you can't afford to have a weakness, or you'll be dead. This is all happening to John because of you."

Sebastian left him alone then, a satisfied smile resting on his lips. Sherlock remained sitting on the floor, the strips of wallpaper lay forgotten. It was then that Sherlock promised himself he would open that damn door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review? How was that?


	10. Milkshake

A deadly silence filled the room. John could no longer look at Mycroft, because guilt had hit him like a truck. The small inkling sensation of guilt had started off as he realised what kind of game Moriarty was playing, but then it started growing. Filling ever fibre of his being until he couldn't stomach looking at the kid's brother. He made himself feel sick. 

"Before he met you?" Mycroft questioned, and John nodded slowly. 

"I'm the cause of all this. Sherlock was fine visiting Molly and sneaking off around London. This started happening the moment he met me. I'd never seen those guys in St Bart's before. I'd never seen Sherlock in St Bart's before either. He must have been there, though, for most of the time that I was. It was since he met me that this started." John hung his head. 

"Don't be such an idiot John. None of this is your fault." Greg said firmly, glaring at John as though angry at him that he'd think something like that. John didn't say anything. 

“I think we need to take you away from this.” Mycroft decided, standing up and turning to leave. John looked up then.

“What?”

“Clearly we've put you in danger by getting you involved. Someone will be here to collect you within the hour and take you back to your home. Your mother and sister will be waiting for you. I'm sorry John, but this is for your own good, and William's.”

The fact that Mycroft had called Sherlock William caused John's stomach to drop like a lead balloon. Mycroft was being serious. He didn't want John involved. 

“You can't do that!” Greg's response startled both John and Mycroft in unison. He stood up, looking between them, he was fumbling around with his hands slightly. “Look, I don't know Sherlock, but he cares about John. If you and your umbrellas go barging in-” John grinned “he won't be too happy. Kicking John out of this will be the worst thing to do. Sherlock doesn't know you. He knows John. He's gonna need to see a familiar face when this is all over.”

Greg never seised to amaze John. He was always the voice of reason. Reasoning with the Maths teacher so that they didn't get detention (which John could never do, he was rubbish at that stuff).   
When John had flipped out and punched a kid, Greg was the one who calmed him down. Greg was always there for him. Greg was incredible. 

“Be that as it may, John will take down the entire operation. He said it himself.” Mycroft's voice was following a monotone, but he had sorrowfulness etched into his face. “I'm sorry, John.” He was just turning to leave, when John's phone started buzzing. Eyes drifting away from his Mycroft, he unlocked the device.

“And what if he texts me?”

Mycroft stopped.

“He's texted you?” He replied, and John and Greg smirked at each other as Mycroft's voice regained excitement.

“Yeah. But I'm not getting involved... So I better delete it.” That's when Greg's face dropped and he stared at John with utter confusion. While Mycroft's back was still turned, John slid Greg a wink. Greg grinned.

“No.” Mycroft said quickly, turning back around. “What does it say?”

“It says...” John thumbed through the message. “'Hi. I'm really sorry about your leg. I feel awful about it. Do you want to meet up so I can buy you a drink?' And then it says SB.” 

Mycroft nodded. 

“Reply. Tell him you'll meet him.” John bit his lip as he began typing his reply.

Dislocated knees aren't great, and yeah okay. When and where?

He hit send. Looking back towards Mycroft, who was now checking his watch. It didn't take long for the reply to come through. John read it out loud again.

“'Lol'” John's face contorted as he read the abbreviation. “'How about Snacks Galore at twelve tomorrow?' Then 'SB' again”. Mycroft nodded again. John replied:

Okay. Great. See you tomorrow. 

But he didn't press send. 

“We'll pick you up at eleven and take you there.” John nodded in agreement as Mycroft left. As the door closed, John exhaled deeply.

“You didn't press send.” Greg pointed out helpfully. John rubbed his face as he dropped the phone onto his lap.

“It's not Sherlock.” He said finally, more quietly.

“What?” 

“Mycroft's such an idiot. It's not Sherlock. See?” John grabbed the phone again. “Sherlock used to reply with SB at the end of the message, but he stopped as soon as I told him he didn't need to. He hasn't done that for a few days. And like hell he'd say lol. This isn't Sherlock. This is a trap.”

He handed Greg the phone and Greg skimmed through the previous messages. 

“Wow. Okay, so what're you going to do?” He asked, giving John the phone back. John ran a hand through his hair.

“I'm going. At a different time, eleven, to be exact. If they know that Mycroft's there then I've got no chance.”

“No chance of what?” 

“Of getting to Sherlock.”

–

Five years had passed. He was certain of it. What was the world like on the other side? Had hover cars finally come into existence? Maybe there were colonies on the moon? Had the human race been wiped out by a plague of some extreme virus? Was he the only human left? Had he grown? Was he really twenty-one?

Sherlock saw the upside door swing open. He was lying across the bed with his feet propped against the wall, and his head lolling off the bed. The world was so much more different upside down. 

“Tell me,” he said as the figure walked into the room “what year is it?” He yelped slightly as his ankle was shocked. He'd forgotten about the no question rule. 

“Sebastian was supposed to have put you in a depressive mood...” Jim said thoughtfully. “He seems to have increased your sarcasm level.” 

Sherlock rolled over, bring his legs down and his head up, he pivoted so that he was sitting on the bed. Jim came and sat next to him. 

“I'd like to know what it's like in a hover car...” Sherlock pondered out loud, the corners of Jim's lips curled upwards slightly. 

“You've been in here for two hours, Sherlock. Don't be so dramatic.” Jim laughed slightly. It was such a different atmosphere to the one they'd been experiencing lately. Sherlock had decided to play a new card. If Jim wanted to break him, Jim would break him. If Sherlock didn't want to be broken, then he wouldn't be broken. Join quietly, go out kicking and screaming. That was his theory, anyway.

“That's all I know.” Sherlock shrugged, falling onto his back and stretching out his legs, revealing what he'd named as 'The Zapper' on his ankle as his trouser leg rose. He stuck his leg into the air, making it unmissable for Jim. “When can I have this off?” It vibrated painfully, but he ignored it.

Jim didn't answer him, but sighed instead. 

“You haven't exactly proved yourself, Sherlock.” He said, looking away from the ankle and towards the now pouting Sherlock. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, still retaining the pout. Jim laughed again.

“As I said earlier, you've only been in here two hours, and in that time you've defaced the wall.” Jim nodded towards the bare side of the room. “Were you planning on doing something with the wallpaper?”. Sherlock raised his head where he way and shrugged again at the pile of ripped up wallpaper he'd created. 

“Dunno. A hat maybe.” He said, dropping his head back onto the bed.

“Is that what you wanted the metal for?” Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock froze. “To make a papier-mâché hat?” Sherlock gulped.

“... Yeah.” He agreed hopefully. It had crossed his mind, after all. 

“Don't lie.” Jim's face turned stony. He was glaring at Sherlock, who was still lying on the bed. Not fully daring himself to sit up. He felt weak against Jim's glower. 

“I'm not lying...”  
That was a mistake, as just then his least favourite person strode into the room. 

Sebastian grabbed his bad ankle and yanked him off the bed. Sherlock grappled with the sheets, in a futile attempt to remain sprawled across the mattress. He fell onto the floor with a thud, huffing as he glared at Sebastian while propping himself up using his arms. 

“You are lying, don't be such an idiot.” Jim said. He stood up and straightened his suit. “Check his pockets.” His voice was simple and plain. It was hard to believe that this was the man who had been laughing at/with him earlier.

Sebastian grabbed Sherlock again, who yelled in protest as Sebastian's rough hand was shoved carelessly into his pocket, extracting the metal and with it Sherlock's only escape plan. Sebastian was smiling down at Sherlock, who had turned red in his fuming state. 

“There's not enough here to make a hat.” Jim accepted the metal that Sebastian was handing him, sticking out his index finger and wrapping it around it to make a coil. Sherlock's eyes were fixated on it. Jim pulled the coil from his finger and placed it delicately into his own pocket. 

“Why do you keep doing this, Sherlock?” Jim asked, regret etched into his voice. Sherlock didn't say anything, his only response was to breathe out heavily. At the none-existent reply, Jim's face contorted. The irrepressible silence was broken my Jim's phone going off.

“He'll meet us at eleven instead.” He told Sebastian matter-of-factly, and Sherlock's attention spiked.

“Who're you meeting?” He asked, squeezing his eyes shut at the volts. Sebastian's face made Sherlock want to punch it.

“Johnny Boy.” Sebastian grinned happily. Sherlock jumped up, taking a swipe for Jim's phone, but Sebastian's knee hit him hard in the gut, causing him to double over, clutching at his newly winded stomach. “Thought you said you didn't care for him?”

“I don't.” Sherlock wheezed, straightening himself up and gasping for breath, both arms still wrapped around his middle. 

“Stop lying.” Jim ordered. 

What did they want him to say? That he didn't want to see an innocent kid hurt? An innocent kid who was actually nice to him? Of course Sherlock cared for him. The moment he'd met him in the Police Station, Sherlock had realised there was something different about John. He was strong, and had had to deal with so much shit in his life already. Yet he was still so kind. He was strong, shy, kind. He was everything that Sherlock wasn't in his opinion. To Sherlock, John was what a human should be. From what he could remember of his life, Sherlock had always been surrounded with horrible people. The number of times he'd strolled into to kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk only to find a gang of hit-men playing Poker was untrue. He was surrounded with dull, uninteresting imbeciles. John was anything but. Of course he cared.

“Why are you so determined to make his life hell?” Sherlock asked. His stomach was distracting him from his ankle now, which he was extremely thankful for, because he was certain that the voltage would have been increased. 

“That's none of you business.” Jim told him. “It's Sebastian's business, not mine. But it's been brought to my attention that he'll have some utility.” 

Sherlock didn't want to know what that meant, or more rather; he didn't want the pain that came with this question. He was fast regaining his breath and he preferred it remain.

“I can see that your dying to ask. You look slightly constipated, actually. I'll tell you. That ankle must be getting a little bit sore, now. Musn't it?” Sherlock nodded slowly. He didn't want to talk. Just in case.

“Well tough.” Jim grinned. Sherlock very narrowly stopped himself from yelling or punching. He wanted to do around ten different things, but he wasn't entirely sure which one to do.

“You're- that's- urgh!” Words couldn't formulate as the anger hit the override button in Sherlock's brain. He didn't realise what he was doing as he grabbed one of the only accessories in the minimalistic room (the lamp), and threw it hard against the wall. Sebastian was laughing, while Jim looked on scornfully. 

“Don't fucking touch John.” Sherlock seethed through clenched teeth. “Don't fucking lay a finger on him.”

“Who's gonna stop us?” Sebastian teased, taking a step closer to Sherlock. “You?” 

Sherlock nodded, balling up his fists ready to strike. That just made Sebastian laugh harder. 

“You think I'm just some stupid sixteen year old. You think I know nothing of your organisation. I could so easily wipe you all out. You've always kept so much hidden from me. But I'm not stupid, and I haven't been idle. So, c'mon then.” A name suddenly erupted into his mind. “Who's William?” 

At first Sherlock thought that the Earth had stopped turning, because Jim and Sebastian had both frozen. It would have been comical under a different circumstance. Now however, he couldn't have said something less consequential.

“What did you say?” Jim snarled.

“Who's William?” Sherlock repeated. He generally had no idea who this William fellow was, only that he'd been hearing his name echoing through his dreams for the last nine years. His ankle had gone passed the point of hurting now. It was full on throbbing. Jim rounded on Sebastian then.

“How the absolute fuck does he know about that?!” Jim yelled, losing control slightly as his arms rocketed into the air. 

“I don't know, calm down.” Sebastian's manner changed completely, as Jim dissolved into hysterics, although there were no tears. It was complete anger mingled with complete despair. Sherlock watched on as Sebastian reached forward, taking Jim's arm carefully and pulling him close, wrapping him into a hug. Sherlock's eyes were wide as the pair hugged each other, and they turned slightly on the spot that they were standing. Sebastian's fierce eyes locked onto Sherlock's fearful ones.

Sebastian lifted his head and mouthed:

“You're dead.”

Sherlock ran.

–

John checked his watch. He was sitting in the dingy cafe that was Snacks Galore, sipping on a chocolate milkshake that didn't appear to have any milk in it. It was more like water. 

The hands set to eleven o'clock. He'd skipped school completely, using the excuse of mourning his step-fathers death. At least the man had been useful for something in his death. 

Mycroft's people should be arriving at his house any minute now. His Mum should tell them that she made him go to school (which she had tried to do, but John got on the bus going the opposite way to his school with a change of clothes), so that's where they'd next go looking for him. Hopefully.

Greg knew where he was, obviously. John knew he was putting himself in danger but he wasn't completely stupid either, if anything went awfully wrong, Greg would inform the Police of what was going on. John ran through everything in his head, fretting incase he'd missed something important. 

The bell above the door dinged as it swung open. John couldn't help but tense as he looked up to find Sebastian standing in the doorway. This had been a really bad idea. Forget everything else, this was utterly stupid. He was pleased to see however that Sebastian had a nice black eye forming, and John was sure that it was curtesy of Sherlock. 

“I'm sure you know how this works.” Sebastian said, striding across the room in a few easy steps and sitting down opposite John.

“I have my hunches.” John shrugged. Inside he was trembling. This really was an absolutely awful plan. “How'd you get the shiner?” He asked, nodding towards the bruise. 

“Your mate Sherlock, actually. Yeah, he didn't seem to happy about the whole knee thing. Although he's a bit out of it at the moment, so I had to come instead.” 

Sherlock was out of it? What did that mean? Had him and Sebastian had a fight? Undoubtedly. That's where the bruise came from.

“Is he alright?” John asked, taking a slurp of his vile milkshake. He pretended not to be repulsed by it.

“No... No not really. He's been sleeping since about five yesterday. Fell out of a tree, stupid bugger.”

John was watching Sebastian carefully. Like hell Sherlock had fallen out of a tree. Even he could come up with a better cover-up. Sebastian wasn't even trying, or maybe he did really think that John was that thick. 

He yawned, covering his mouth as he continued to survey Sebastian. 

“Am I keeping you awake?” He asked, raising his eyebrows as John staunched yet another yawn.

“Nope.” John replied defensively, Sebastian smiled slightly. But John had suddenly become ridiculously tired. He put it down to how exhausting his previous day had been. He watched through drooping eyelids as Sebastian took his milkshake and began prodding at the liquid with a straw. 

“I used to use Ambien a lot when I couldn't sleep. It was very useful, I suffered with severe insomnia.” He said, continuing to poke at the light brown liquid. 

“What...?” John had his head resting on his arm now, trying to keep himself upright. 

“Who'd have thought to up the dosage, powder it, and put it in some poor bugger's chocolate milkshake, aye?” Sebastian smirked as it suddenly dawned on John what was happening. He definitely should have waited for Mycroft. John's vision went blurry, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to rid himself of the tiredness.

“C'mon then. Let's get you home.” The voice that Sebastian had adopted was that of tenderness. He stood up and walked around the booth, scooping John up as if he were a five year old. John tried to fight him off, but he was too damn tired.

– 

Sherlock's ears pricked up at the sound of the front door slamming shut. He knew he wouldn't have a chance of seeing John (as that was surely who they were getting), and so he remained slunk in the dark corner. After the escapade with the bed, he wasn't allowed the comforts of his own room- although he thought the cellar was a little extreme. The handcuffs... Yeah. He could understand that.

He grinned to himself as he remembered running from his room, and Sebastian following him, yelling after him. Sherlock had sprinted down a flight of stairs, where he ran straight into the arms of one of Jim's less foreboding henchmen. He managed to wriggle free just as Sebastian's feet hit the bottom step. Not being able to run any further, due to Sebastian's clear physical advantage, Sherlock had turned around and punched him straight in the face.

However, while all this was going on Sherlock's leg had been having a spasm, and quickly it became too much to handle. He supposed that if he wasn't cursed with the blessed Shocker, he'd have been able to avoid less punishment. Sherlock couldn't quite remember when it had happened, but he remembered a darkness clouding his mind. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in this pathetic excuse for a cellar. There was a freezer in it, for a start. Sherlock grinned smugly to himself as he imagined Mrs Greens face as she went to get the oven chips, only to find him handcuffed and bloodied. What a sight that would be.

He was only really smiling for the camera, though. He was sure that every single room in this house had a camera. Inside meanwhile, his stomach was turning. Jim had John. Even worse than that: Sebastian had John.


	11. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very Sherlock heavy chapter. Also, I was rereading and I realised that I got the ages wrong at some points. Sherlock was nine when Jim took him. Not eleven like I've previously said. So yeah. Sorry about that.

“Where is he?”

The door hadn't even opened fully before Sherlock starting talking to the newcomer. He'd stood up the moment he heard the key scuff the keyhole, and was now standing with his hands tied in front of him and staring eagerly at the door. His ankle twinged slightly.

In all honesty, he'd expected it to be Jim. Jim was usually the one who went to see him after a fight. Even when it was Sherlock who was in the wrong (which it usually was). Therefore, his hope shrivelled the moment Sebastian entered the room and shut the door behind him.

“John? He's in one of the bedrooms upstairs sound asleep.” Sebastian said lightly, as though he'd finally managed to put the baby to sleep. It made Sherlock cringe.

“Asleep due to exhaustion or did you knock him out too?” Sherlock quipped. By the time this was all over, his ankle would be really tolerable to some serious shit.

“I didn't knock him out. Not personally anyway. That was the kid behind the counter and his milkshake's doing. I just made sure he got here." Sebastian's eyes kept darting towards Sherlock's forehead, which was throbbing painfully. He could feel the sticky blood plastered along his cheek from where it had run down his face. He'd attempted to rub some of it off, but it was made difficult owing to the handcuffs. 

He couldn't see the extent of the damage for himself though, only feel it.

"I don't suppose you're going to let me see him." Sherlock stated, bring his arm up and rubbing his the bridge of his nose on his sleeve. When he withdrew it, flecks of dried blood were visible on the dark suit jacket he was still wearing. So he'd cut his nose then, too.

"That's what I'm here to talk to you about." Sebastian said, walking over to the freezer and climbing on top of it. His feet dangled at least a foot from the ground, and he was swinging them merrily. Sherlock meanwhile remained standing.

"See, we have a proposition for you, Jim and I." He started, heels now idly hitting the freezer as they flew backwards and forwards through the air. Sherlock nodded, giving Sebastian the cue to continue. "A potential client has come up. We've decided that this will be the ideal opportunity for you to prove yourself. It's a win for both of us, Sherlock. You'll be one step closer to proving your loyalty, and we'll be one step closer to-" He stopped. "That doesn't concern you." He raised his arm and brandished it as though swatting away a fly.

"And as an extra accolade, we're willing for you to see John. Only for a short amount of time though." Sebastian added quickly, as Sherlock's hopes skyrocketed.

"What do you want me to do?"

–

Sherlock was relieved when his first command was to have a shower. He really did appreciate that. It was wonderful to wash away all the grime that had gathered on him within the last twenty four hours. He questioned the Shocker though, only to be informed that it was waterproof. 

His second command was to get dressed, and to 'sort your damn hair out', which he really did try to do, but the mop decided not to play along. Sherlock desperately hoped that it wouldn't affect his chances of seeing John in anyway.

Sherlock needed this. He needed to speak to John. The tension was bubbling up inside of him as the hours ticked by. He had been allowed back into his bedroom in order to have a shower, but it had been locked the moment the door closed. He'd been relieved of the handcuffs though, which he was quite happy about. The only drawback was that he'd been confined to his room again. He'd rather that than the cellar though. Why did all old buildings have cellars? 

Sebastian had informed him that John wouldn't be waking up for at least twelve hours. That gave them sufficient time to get whatever they were doing over and done with (Sherlock was still none the wiser as to what was going to happen). He just prayed that he would be back in time to be with John when he woke up. The poor sod would be slightly confused to say the least; and going on what Sherlock knew about him slightly pissed off.

After what felt like eternity, the door was unlocked at a gruff looking man who Sherlock had seen around the house strode in baring the handcuffs again. Sherlock sighed and held out his arms, pleased that they hadn't yet decided to cuff him from behind. Otherwise he'd really be screwed.

The man lead him out by grabbing tightly onto his arm and practically dragging him through the house. He felt like a prisoner. Had all of this really come from asking who William is or was? The way they responded however told Sherlock that it was important, so no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't forget it. He had a nasty habit of either retaining information, or forgetting about it completely. Jim said it was his gift, Sherlock had no opinion on the matter.

Gravel crunched under his shoes as they stepped outside and towards one of the more stunning cars of Jim's fleet. He quickly allowed himself a glance at the large window on the furthest side of the house from him. He'd managed to work out that that's where John was. He'd been informed that John's expected wake-up time was roughly nine o'clock, and it was now half-past five.

The car door was opened for him and he slid into the seat, with a surprising gracefulness considering his hand predicament. Once he sat down however, he found himself once again within the awkward company of Jim. Sherlock quickly averted his eyes away from him and took instead to staring at his hands, which had become interesting all of a sudden. 

"The cuffs will be removed once we get there." Jim told him. Sherlock just nodded as the front passenger door opened and Sebastian sat himself down. They really weren't taking any chances, it seemed.

The driver started the engine, and they pulled off down that driveway. Sherlock wasn't happy about leaving John, but at the same time he felt relaxed knowing that neither Jim nor Sebastian would be there to torment him we he did eventually wake up.

London rolled by, and Sherlock was itching to open the car door and explore. He could feel the city moving around him. He squirmed, desperate to run down some alley and torment people. He was able to toss every worry about John from his mind as the drove passed the Library they'd been to on their second day of meeting, imagining the pair of them running off and going to Camden Market before getting the Tube to Barbican where they'd get off and walk to St Bart's to see Molly. Sherlock would prod at some dead bodies while John and Molly chatted with each other. Then all three of them would go somewhere else and crash out, maybe to a cafe, where he'd order an espresso and Molly would order something drowning in squirty cream... John would probably have a cappuccino. It sounded ideal to Sherlock. He wanted a day like that. 

“Your cuts are from falling down the stairs.” Sebastian told him from the front. Apparently Jim didn't feel like talking to him. Had he really upset him that much?

Sherlock craned his neck in order to see his reflection in the rearview mirror. The cut on his head was hidden behind his hair, and wouldn't be seen by anyone. On his nose he supported a nice scabbed line across his bridge. If he had have fallen down the stairs, he would have to hit his nose pretty hard in order to create that kind of cut. He sighed at the feebleness of the cover up. If he had fallen from a great height and hit his nose, it would most likely be broken. 

The car pulled to a stop and Sebastian undid his seatbelt before kneeling on his seat and twisting his body. He was holding the key, and Sherlock stretched out his arms allowing him to unlock them. Once they were off, he rubbed his wrists which had started turning red. The bloke who had put them on did them too tight. 

“Right. No funny business. We need you to tell us everything about this man. Everything at all. Any funny business, any trying to run off, anything at all- we still have John. Don't do anything stupid.” Sebastian said sternly. He then opened his own car door, and strode around the car to open Jim's. Sherlock's own door was locked from the inside, and therefore had to wait for Sebastian to stop being a gentleman and to open it. Jim didn't even look at Sherlock as he stepped out the car. 

Eventually, Sherlock found himself standing on the concrete curb with his heels overhanging over the road while Sebastian chatted into a walkie-talkie. He was left with Jim, who had his hands propped behind his back. His depressive demeanour that had been so prominent in the car had now been masked by a new Jim. The one that Sherlock respected the most. The man standing next to him was calm, casual, and cool as hell. He was also incredibly eccentric too, but from what Sherlock could tell, what they were currently facing required the business-Jim. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what he'd have to do. 

Sebastian gave them the go ahead, and they walked briskly forwards towards the old Victorian building they were facing. Sherlock made sure to tread a few paces behind Jim, but not too far which would cause Sebastian to pounce on him. Jim looked like he was in charge here, but really it was Sebastian. Afterall, behind the stage is where the magic happens. Jim was the actor, while Sebastian was the director. Sherlock found their relationship confusing and uninteresting.

The automatic doors opened for them and Sherlock found himself standing in a rather luxurious hotel lobby. The tiles were made of marble, and almost every piece of furniture was flecked with gold paint. Large green potted plants gave the place a refreshing burst, while the cream sofas looked comfy and inviting. Clearly, whoever they were seeing held some wealth to their name. 

“Mr Moriarty.” A woman called from one of the sofas. Sherlock turned to look at her, but Jim pretended not to hear. He was wearing a slick pair of sunglasses, despite being inside. Sherlock nudged him lightly, trying to get his attention, but Jim hissed at him. He quickly backed down.

“Mr Moriarty!” The woman called again, and by now it was fairly obvious that Jim was ignoring her. 

“She's a distractor.” Jim supplied. Sherlock quickly glanced over at the woman again. All of her clothes were brand new, and there were small holes dotted in various places in her face where piercings were missing. Distractors were a common problem. Often picked up on the street, they acted as a means to try and attract the visitors attention. Sherlock had fallen down on one of these people before, but if he was being fair to himself she was a little old lady who had asked him to help her cross the road. He couldn't exactly refuse.   
Nevertheless, Jim continued to ignore as he gracefully made his way over to the lift, Sherlock followed quickly behind, remembering to be on his best behaviour. 

They encountered several more Distractors after exiting the lift, one of which was posing as a cleaner. Whoever this was, they were serious. Very serious. 

Jim stopped abruptly at a door, and wrapped his knuckles across it cheerfully. A few moments later, the door swung open and Sherlock's jaw nearly hit the floor. 

“Ah, Mr Moriarty. It's a pleasure to finally to see you again.” The man's voice was light, and sounded too jovial. The face that claimed ownership of the voice was bronze, a result of being exposed to a climate that didn't belong to England for a long time. 

“Likewise, Mr Watson. Sebastian sends his regards.”

Sherlock wanted to throw up. The man standing in front of him was the spitting image of John, only with a much thicker build and several scars adorning his face. And what did Jim mean? 'Sebastian sends his regards? That meant they had more to do with John than Sherlock had previously thought. Sherlock needed to speak to John as quickly as possible, and the only way of doing that was to do what he was there for, so he absorbed everything he could find out about the man standing in front of him. 

“Ah. I thought he'd be coming? It's a long time since we last spoke.” The man's blue eyes that so effortlessly matched John's strayed over to Sherlock now, who had been frowning in his attempt to learn everything.

“You must be Sherlock! I don't think we've met.” Mr Watson stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake. He could feel the worn skin beneath his fingers. He was a man of labour then, Sherlock supposed. 

“No, I don't think we have.” Sherlock replied, attempting a smile and being relieved when Mr Watson returned it. He seemed nice. Like John. 

“Well do come in! Can't have you both standing on my sort of door step. We have a kettle, I can fix up a brew if you'd like?” Jim accepted the offer of tea, as did Sherlock. Mr Watson bustled around, opening sachets of milk and sugar while the kettle boiled. Sherlock and Jim settled themselves on chairs, and Sherlock was watching Mr Watson intently. Jim already knew everything that Sherlock could possibly tell him. So why was he here? And what could John's real-life father want with Distractors situated left-right and centre?

After he'd handed Sherlock a mug of very strong tea, he sat down himself, nursing his own mug. 

“I hope he's taking care of you; Jim, I mean.” Mr Watson grinned, nodding towards Jim. 

“Well, he does his best I suppose.” Sherlock shrugged, sipping the scorching hot tea and regretting it almost immediately afterwards. It was very hot. Mr Watson just laughed.

“You're lucky, you know. My own son and daughter know nothing of my existence. I regret it, now, of course. But alas, duty calls.” He winked at Jim who smiled and nodded knowingly. “I believe my Harry is fourteen, now. Can you imagine that? And John's sixteen! I've been gone so long.” Mr Watson stared thoughtfully into his tea. Sherlock was fighting back the urge to jump up and start hurling questions at the man.  
“So you're doing alright then? Managed to fix yourself up with quite a stunning place.” Jim's eyes trailed around the room. 

“Oh yeah.” Mr Watson nodded eagerly. “The guys me and Seb worked for certainly know how to treat their staff...” He smirked. It was actually unnerving Sherlock how much he looked like John. 

Jim's phone starting ringing, and he slid it from his pocket. 

“I'm sorry, Mr Watson, but duty calls.” Jim said apologetically, standing up. He hadn't touched his tea at all. Sherlock was thankful for his semi-asbestos mouth and downed his own with a few gulps.

“Oh. Alright then. Tell Seb to pop over, yeah?” Jim nodded and shook hands with Mr Watson as they quickly left the hotel room. Sherlock waited until they were in the car before he exploded.

“What?!” Was all that he managed to formulate. Apparently however, he'd done well as the handcuffs seemed to not be making an appearance as the car pulled away. 

“Was he alright?” Sebastian asked from the front. Jim nodded.

“Grand.” He turned to Sherlock then. “What did you learn?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth and then shut it again. His brain had gone fuzzy. 

“You know everything I could tell you.” He decided on saying eventually. 

“Yep. But I want you to tell me anyway.” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead and moulding on to the back seat. 

“Mr Watson, has been abroad somewhere for a few years going by the tan. I'd say holiday, but he'd been over there for a long time and his hands were strong, as was his build indicating he worked rather than lounged by the pool. He mentioned himself and Sebastian being employed by the same person, and I don't know what Sebastian used to do but I can imagine it wasn't savoury.” From the front, Sherlock heard Sebastian laugh. “So whatever he did abroad wasn't exactly pleasant. The calluses on his hands are identical to several of your men-” he nodded at Jim “and is typical of holding a lot of guns. I think it's fair to assume that he's killed a few people. He started off military, but then fell on to a more dangerous route- where he met Sebastian I presume. He has a son and a daughter, called John and Harry. He hasn't seen them in a long time though, but why? He clearly wants contact. He doesn't know that you know so much about John, and he obviously regards you both quite highly, although he knows Sebastian better.”

By the time he'd finished, Jim was clapped and Sebastian was laughing. 

“Why are you two so obsessed with John?” He asked in a small voice.

“We're not the one who's obsessed with him, Sherly. That's you. But because you've decided to make him your business, he's now our business.” Jim grinned, and Sebastian was grinning in the front, nodding in agreement. They were like meddlesome parents.

“Why did he kill Mr Jones then?” Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at Sebastian's head. 

“We didn't say we weren't originally interested.” Jim said. “John's more important than you now.”

“How do you mean? You killed Mr Jones, are you going to kill Mr Watson too? I don't suppose he knows anything to do with John, except for his age?” Jim just waggled his eyebrows knowingly. “Can't you just leave him alone?”

“Nope.” Sebastian spoke up from the front, and Sherlock glowered at his head. 

“He's your interest, so he's our business. But he's also our business on business-business.” Jim supplied. Sherlock just slunk further back into his seat.

–

No matter what time of day it happened to be, John hated waking up with a passion. It was just something that he generally detested and despised. However, soon enough the memories of what had happened quickly flooded into his mind and he jumped up, suddenly aware that he wasn't in his own room. 

Quietly, he got up from the rather comfy bed he'd been lying on and stepped across the laminate flooring towards the door. He hadn't realised that his shoes had been removed. 

He cautiously turned the handle, and was most surprised when it clicked and opened for him. He gently eased it open, and found himself standing in a long corridor. It was undoubtedly where Sherlock lived, everything followed the same pristine colour scheme. 

“John!” John jumped out of his skin as a short woman came bustling over to him, arms laden with crisp white towels. “Oh bless you, did I make you jump? Master Moran told me you'd be waking up soon. Are you hungry? I'm sorry to hear about your step-father.” The woman smiled kindly up at him, and John just blinked in confusion. “I'm Mrs Green, by the way.” She said, almost as though this would spark some recognition. John was still only half waking up though. “Sherlock isn't here right now. He'll be back in a few hours. Would you like some hot chocolate?” 

John nodded as Mrs Green smiled brighter than before and lead him towards the kitchen.


	12. Kitchen Roll

Wherever he went, he felt distinctly out of place. Everything in the house was so smooth, so well rounded it was untrue. There were no threadbare carpets like at his house, and certainly no indiscreet stains that John didn't want to know where they had come from. Mrs Green seemed nice though. She was currently bustling around the kitchen, pulling down a mug and scooping heaped teaspoons of hot chocolate powder into it. The smell made John's stomach growl. 

"Cream?" She asked, walking over to the fridge. John hated to be a bother, so he declined, only being thankful of the fact that he was finally getting something into his system after that sleep inducing milkshake. The calmness he had felt as Mrs Green poured the boiling water into the mug now vaporised as he realised just what kind of situation he was in. 

She handed him the mug, and he accepted it gladly, running his hand along the ceramic in an attempt to warm them up. He was wearing one of his favourite jumpers and a simple pair of blue jeans, but after leaving the warmth of his bed he was still slightly chilly. 

"Do you know where Sherlock is?" He asked, blowing into the cup trying to cool it down. 

"He's gone out with Master Jim and Master Moran I believe." She said as she started cleaning the counter. John had perched himself at the large island in the middle of the kitchen, and was sitting on one of the very high stools. He watched her as she started pulling out vegetables from cupboards and started chopping them. "Excuse me a second."

She put down her knife and left the kitchen, leaving John to sip his hot chocolate in peace. Surely if Sherlock was hurt in anyway, Mrs Green would know about it? He'd already seen evidence of Sebastian being abusive. She'd know about it though, wouldn't she? John was snapped out of his thoughts as a now very red Mrs Green returned into the kitchen.

"Honestly! Blood! In the cellar! Nice of them to tell me about it." She was muttering to herself as she started extracting cleaning products. 

"Blood?" John asked, taking another gulp of his drink. 

"Yep. In the cellar. I don't know where it comes from. Honestly I don't. I'm going to have serious words with Master Moriarty." John smirked slightly as he watched Mrs Green disappear again. 

Just then however, he could hear loud voices in the hallway. John didn't know what to do. Did he remain seated? Did he go and see who it was? He didn't have time to make up his mind. 

"Where is he?" That was Sherlock. That was most definitely Sherlock, and he sounded fine. A little panicked maybe, but completely fine. 

"Should be upstairs." John heard Jim say. 

"Can I go and see him?" The tone of enthusiasm was overrun with that of desperation. 

"What do you think, Seb? Think he's behaved himself?" 

"I suppose so." Sebastian said.

John didn't hear what Sherlock said, if he said anything at all, but Jim was now saying in a motherly fashion:

"Wait. You've opened that cut on your nose again. Go and clean yourself up first, and remember: you fell down the stairs." 

Why would he need to remember that he fell down the stairs? John thought as he finished the last of his hot chocolate. Then it dawned on him just who they were talking about. John didn't have time to do anything before footsteps could be heard drawing closer, and he turned around just as Sherlock appeared in the doorway. 

He had indeed cut his nose, and it was bleeding lightly. 

"John?" He sounded slightly stunned.

"Hi." John replied, grinning slightly and raising his mug as if to say cheers. 

"What're you doing?" Sherlock's voice was cold and anxious. John's grin faltered.

"Drinking hot chocolate." John supplied simply. 

"Nope." Sherlock strode over to him and prised the now empty mug from his hands before tossing it into the sink with Mrs Green's half peeled potatoes. 

"What-"

"You can't be here. You're not getting trapped by them. You're leaving." Sherlock said shortly, walking back around the island and practically pushing John off the stool. 

He continued pushing a confused John through the house, until John turned around so that he was facing Sherlock. Sherlock stopped. 

"Your nose looks painful." John said, eyes raking the red cut. Sherlock blinked at him. 

"Nope. It's fine. Just dandy. And you're leaving." Sherlock began pushing John again, only this time it required John to walk backwards. It was slightly awkward. The pair of them only being Sherlock's arm width apart. It shouldn't have been awkward though, really, seeing as they'd fallen asleep leaning against each other. Yet somehow it was. 

"Sherlock-" 

"No."

"But you're-"

"No." Sherlock repeated more firmly. John sighed before removing himself from Sherlock's hands. 

"Sherlock, you're bleeding. From your head." He pointed at where a red patch was beginning to form, seeping out from under the ebony hairline. Sherlock touched where the apparent cut was.

"It's fine." He lied, and John could tell by the way he winced as his fingers pressed down in it. 

"If you've cut your head you've probably got a concussion." John pointed out as Sherlock frowned.

"It's fine." He repeated again. "I slept it off." John's face contorted so that it matched Sherlock's frown. Although while Sherlock's frown was more: 'I'm frowning because I've suddenly realised I have no control over this situation', John's frown stood for: 'I'm frowning because I'm trying to work out what happened to your head, and you not telling me is making me concerned.'

"I'm not buying it." John said, spinning him around and pushing Sherlock back towards the kitchen. Sherlock protested slightly through several gruff mutterings, but made no actual attempt to stop being pushed by John. 

Once back in the kitchen, John fumbled around for the kitchen roll, ripped a piece off and stuck in under the cold tap. He then went back to Sherlock and (standing on his tiptoes) carefully parted his hair so he could see the source of the blood flow. When he'd finally located it through the mop, he put the sodden kitchen roll down firmly on top of it, and asked Sherlock to hold it in place while he got some more for his nose to clean it up. 

“You need to leave.” Sherlock told him firmly as John re-approached. John reached up and started cleaning the cut on his nose.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You need to get out of here.” 

“And uh,” John brought himself back down so he was standing on his heels. “You think I have a choice in leaving?” He cocked his eyebrow as he brought the kitchen roll away from Sherlock's nose. It had now stopped bleeding. 

“Irrelevant. You need to go.” Sherlock stated, eyes locked on John as he walked over the the bin. 

“I know. But I'm not leaving without you.” John said, opening up the bin using the pedal and tossing the kitchen roll into it. He turned back to Sherlock.

“John, I appreciate the whole Knight in Shining Amour thing, but you're in serious danger here.” John laughed.

“And you're not? And I'm hardly a Knight in shining armour. I got myself kidnapped.” John pointed out, grinning. Sherlock decided to ignore the part about getting kidnapped and Knights, and decided to divulge in his own point. 

“I can take care of myself. You're involved in this because of me. I can handle this. I don't want to see you getting your knee dislocated again because of me.” Sherlock's eyes flickered towards John's knee, which was throbbing although quite content. “Don't say it's no bother because you've been limping on it from the moment I saw you today. Are you painkillers wearing off?” John joined Sherlock in looking at his knee.

“Yeah.” He admitted. “Don't suppose you've got any?” 

Sherlock nodded before opening a cupboard and extracting a basket of drugs. He found the one he was looking for and then threw them over to John. 

“Take two.” He said, as John popped the pills from the packet and chucked them back to Sherlock who caught them gracefully with one hand (the other was still holding the kitchen roll to his head) and put them away. Just then, Mrs Green came storming back in.

“Sherlock Brooke!” She shouted fiercely. “Did you get blood on the floor in the cellar?” John surveyed Sherlock quickly, who quickly composed himself.

“Yeah. Sorry. I fell down the stairs and was trying to find the peas again.” He turned his head so the Mrs Green could see the kitchen roll. She sighed impatiently. 

“Sherlock you're a clumsy idiot.” Sherlock just shrugged as she walked towards the sink. She tutted at the mug, pulled it out and placed it back on the side to continue peeling the potatoes. “And I know you're wearing odd socks.” She added. Sherlock pulled a face at her back which made John smirk. 

–

5 hours previous

“They've taken him in.” 

“What're we doing here?”

“I've told you this already Molly. We're helping John and his new boyfriend.” Greg said exasperatedly, removing the binoculars from his eyes and turning to look at Molly.

“John's gay?” She asked, shocked. Greg shook his head. 

“I dunno. They're mates at any rate, and they fell asleep on each other- or so John told me. Look, you can either be in on this, or you can leave. It's entirely up to you.” He crouched down and started rummaging around in his rucksack. 

“No. I want to help.” She said firmly. “Who is this guy, anyway?” She took the binoculars from Greg and peered through the hedge herself.

“Guys name is Sherlock.” Greg said casually. Molly almost dropped her binoculars.

“Sherlock?! I know him!” She half yelped excitedly. 

“You do?” Greg looked up from his rucksack interestedly. 

“Yeah! He comes to see the bodies in the hospital.” She grinned. Greg looked skeptical but took Molly's word for it all the same. Him and Molly were good mates, meeting through a mutual friendship with John. 

John had asked Greg to help, and Greg had obliged. He'd texted Molly to ask for her help too, and Molly had accepted. At first, Greg had been a bit worried as to how Molly would handle everything. As such, she nearly choked when Greg told her that John had willingly allowed for himself to be kidnapped. He'd missed out most of the parts about Sherlock though. 

He pulled out his phone and handed it to Molly. 

“Can you do me a favour and text the person under the name of Mycroft please?” He asked, as Molly began fumbling with the keypad. 

“What do you want me to say?”   
“Tell him that you're Molly Hooper, that you know who Sherlock Brooke is, and that you're with me and that we're at Moriarty's. If he phones, don't answer, because he'll most likely be shouting.” 

–

Now a new silence filled the room, which neither John nor Sherlock were too comfortable with. Mrs Green had started humming as she moved on to the carrots, and Sherlock seized his opportunity. He caught John's eye and nodded towards the door. John nodded tersely and followed Sherlock through it. 

Sherlock navigated their way through the large house, and John gazed at the bleeping control panels on the wall leading to other rooms. He was about to touch one, but Sherlock called out to him.

“Don't.” John withdrew his hand, just as a new voice flooded the otherwise silent house. 

“Ah! Johnny! You're awake! Are you enjoying your books?” The pair of them froze as Jim waltzed into the light in front of them. “Sherlock, Sebby wants you upstairs.” Sherlock was about to protest, but Jim gave him a stern look. “Do you really want to test me?” Jim asked, and Sherlock shook his head before turning around and heading back the way he and John had just come. 

“So, Johnny Boy, how're the books going?” Jim asked, clasping his hands together in front of him and looking down on John dotingly. It made John feel slightly self-conscious.

“They're great thanks. I left them at the hospital though, sorry.” Although his voice didn't sound sorry, not in the slightest. He put on a defensive stance, and Jim could obviously sense it as he then crouched down and placed his hands on his knees. John could feel the back of his neck burning. 

“John, I am so, so, so sorry about that. I trust Sherlock pointed you towards the painkillers.” John nodded, and Jim smiled. “Bless that lad. He really is a thoughtful thing.” He straightened himself up. “I'm also very sorry to hear about your step-father. Mr Jones, wasn't it? But then again, he really was a very horrible man.”

John's stomach dropped as he suddenly realised what Jim was implying.

“You know, it's a funny thing really. Finding out just how little you knew about a person. Some people have bigger secrets than others though. Want to hear one?” John was forcing himself to keep his mouth shut by biting on his tongue furiously. Jim grinned. 

“Ah, but which one? You already know so many...” Jim teased, but John could hear the underlying threat in Jim's voice. “How about the one about Sherlock not being found, but rather kidnapped? Oh wait, you know that one. What about the fact that his name is William Holmes? Whoops, you know it already. Is there anything you don't know?” Jim was looking down on him, and John could feel every muscle in his body clench with every syllable that tumbled from Jim's mouth. “So if you know so much, surely Mycroft Holmes knows a lot more. Where is then? Sending little sixteen year olds into danger?”

John's fists curled into balls. Mycroft hadn't sent him, John had come of his own free will, because he wasn't little. He was fully capable of doing things for himself. What's more, Jim had killed his step-father. He was very much considering punching the man. 

“So it was you who killed him then?” John asked, trying divert the topic of conversation away from Mycroft and how he was involved with him.  
“Of course it was. Not me, I don't like getting my hands dirty. I believe Seb had an input though.” John had thought he couldn't hate the man wrong, but he'd just proven himself wrong. “Anyway. As to what you're really doing here. You're an interesting guy, John. Truly, very interesting.”

“Not as interesting in your cover up stories, mind. Falling out of a tree and falling down the stairs aren't the same thing.” John vividly remembered Sebastian telling him that Sherlock had fallen out of a tree while they were in the cafe. “So, how did he get those cuts?” John asked smoothly. Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, realising the mistake. “Shall I march on down to the Police and let them know that you and your boyfriend are beating up your adopted son or whatever he is to you?” 

“Since when have the Police ever payed attention to you?” Jim smirked, quickly recomposing himself from the forlorn state he'd been in a few moments ago. John frowned.

“So you know what I do in my spare time?” He asked, sighing slightly. Really, he should have expected it. 

“'Course. I said I've seen your school reports, what makes you think I haven't got tabs on the rest your life? We were monitoring your step-father remember, we know what kind of person he was. Maybe you'd have been better off in my care too.” 

John scoffed.

“Like hell I would. I'd have ended up like Sherlock, scared of making friends. No one deserves that.”

For some bizarre reason, John had discovered that he wasn't afraid of Jim. He did demeanour wasn't as evil as the villains in his Nick Clarke books. Jim was a coward. Relying on the likes of Sebastian to do his work. John wondered what his history was like if it had allowed him to climb onto such a high mountain. 

“Sherlock's not scared of making friends. He's scared of what will happen to the friends that he makes.”

“Because of you.” John pointed out. “Because you're a bully.”

“Biggest and baddest bully on the playground.” Jim puffed out his chest, grinning. “Also the best looking.” He quipped, slicking his hair back. John rolled his eyes, Jim saw and his grin deepened. 

“Why am I here? I've been told you wanted me as well as Sherlock. So what do you want?”

Jim didn't give him an answer to his question. But instead started pondering aloud.

“You know, you're very brave. Bit psychotic actually in your bravery. You turned down the help of Mr MI6, just so you could get to Sherlock. Now that's just stupidity, more than bravery. That's just like your father. Did you know he sabotaged a whole operation just to save a bunch of good-for-nothing school kids? Now that really is stupidity. Caused several men to die, his own men. Sebastian isn't happy with him. I'm not happy either, to tell you the truth.” 

“I'm sorry,” John said, confused. “But who're we talking about?” This didn't sound like anything his step-father would have done. Not in a million years. The man was an even bigger coward than Jim. 

“And what world would we be living in if those men who died, their families, didn't see justice?”   
“I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're on about.” 

“Why,” Jim said in his sing-song voice “Mr Hamish Watson, of course!”

\--

Sherlock didn't have to get half way up the stairs before he bumped into Sebastian. He was smirking wryly from a few steps above, and Sherlock just responded with a scowl.

"You're going to be like that then? I was going to take off old Shockey." Sebastian teased. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Really?" 

"Jim told me to." Sebastian shrugged, he seemed reluctant. Sherlock's lips curled upwards. It was good knowing that Sebastian still had to take orders from someone else. Sherlock just tended to do what he pleased and deal with the consequences later. "Said something about you not being as much trouble as usual, what with us having John and everything." 

The pair of them walked to the top of the stairs and Sebastian bent down and fiddled with the Shocker until it fell off into his hand. Sherlock breathed loudly, not realising he'd drawn his breath. He had a red ring around his ankle from where it had been.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, withdrawing his foot and turning his foot around in circles, glad to finally be free of the Shocker. “What does Jim want to talk to John about?” Sherlock asked freely, now without the worry of being electrocuted as he asked a question. 

“That's their business, although you could probably work it out for yourself I should think.” 

Sherlock had worked it out, or so he hoped. There wasn't a connection between John and Mr Jones, except for the fact that the man was his step-father. Mr Jones had gotten himself into a dangerous situation in his company (which somehow affected Jim), and had ended up dead because of it. John would have been on their radar for the simple fact that he was Mr Jones step-son. That was all. Mr Watson on the other hand was an entirely different story. Sherlock didn't know what Jim's and Sebastian's gripe was with him, but he had a rough idea that the man was soon going to end up in the same position as Mr Jones. John was somehow connected to this, and was only meant as a pawn in the game originally. Now however, John had formulated a (near?) friendship with Sherlock, and that couldn't possibly help matters.

“You said that this was because of me, that your interest in him stemmed from me.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “So why's Mr Watson involved?” 

“I didn't say I was going to tell you anything. My niceness only stretches so far Sherlock, and I'm afraid I've rather outdone myself today. Don't push it.”

“You've gone over your 'niceness'? You kidnapped a teenage boy, I don't think that's exactly what you'd count as being nice.” Sherlock replied. Sebastian scowled. 

“I said don't push me, Sherlock.” Sebastian said sternly. 

“You really do hate me, don't you?” Sherlock asked. He returned the hatred naturally, but he couldn't put his finger on where it had started. They used to go on bug hunts together, so what changed?

“I hate you, where you come from, your friend, your past, and your future.” Sebastian said simply. Sherlock nodded slightly and he shrugged.

“Nice.”

“Told you I was nice.” 

Sherlock watched him anxiously as they continued walked, rubbing his thumb and index fingers together. 

“Can I go back down to John?” He asked suddenly, causing Sebastian to look at him in bemusement. 

“Not until Jim's finished.” Sebastian told him, as Sherlock nodded by way of reply. But he was itching to get back to John, and begin planning their escape.


	13. Pyjama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this chapter has taken longer than usual. I've been really busy with school and family business. Here it is, anyway :)

“I'm sorry,” John said, confused. “But who're we talking about?” This didn't sound like anything his step-father would have done. Not in a million years. The man was an even bigger coward than Jim. 

“And what world would we be living in if those men who died, their families, didn't see justice?” 

“I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're on about.” 

“Why,” Jim said in his sing-song voice “Mr Hamish Watson, of course!” 

John scowled, quickly scanning Jim's excited face. 

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” John asked, but of course he knew it was supposed to mean something, he wasn't the idiot that everyone kept trying to make him out to be. He already put the surname with his own, and the fact that his middle name was the name couldn't be purely coincidental either.

“It probably should.” Jim grinned, waggling his eyebrows as though trying to tempt John into another question. 

“Fine. Who is Mr Hamish Watson?” He frowning, feigning interest. Jim accepted it anyway. 

“Someone who would be interested in meeting you.” Jim smiled. John was getting more and more agitated. He hated this mind games that Jim seemed to love. He wanted straight forward answers, not the dragged out ones. 

“Great.” John replied, shrugging. “Give him my number. It's 07-” He was cut off as Jim raised his hand in a stop motion, and John was annoyed at himself for actually shutting up. 

Jim frowned and pulled out his phone which was vibrating in his hand. 

“You're almost as sarcastic as Sherlock. We're done. Mrs Green will show you to your room.” Then he turned stalked away, leaving John to navigate his way back to his room, not wanting to distract Mrs Green from her potatoes any further.

\--

He placed the cup back on the saucer and lowered it so that it was resting on his lap. He looked scornfully at the two teenagers sitting in front of him, both of whom were shifting guiltily in their seats and refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Do you realise," he started, moving the cup and saucer to the coffee table next to him "how much you two have compromised the situation?"

The girl shook her head, and in seeing this the boy kicked her lightly. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"But we haven't." Molly said, finally looking up and facing Greg. Greg looked skeptical, but kept his mouth shut. So Molly continued talking. "John's Mum phoned the Police saying that John was missing. Harry knows who I am, and she got in touch asking if I knew where John was. Then Greg showed up and explained everything, so we went to that house. After we text you-" she nodded towards Mycroft "the Police came to ask us questions, so we answered."

Greg was proud of Molly. So, incredibly proud. She was most often the shyest little thing, but while Mycroft made his knees buckle; Molly had delivered the explanation smoothly and without fault. He was very proud indeed.

“Jim operates outside of the law. The Police ignore what Sherlock has to say at the best of times, usually because he'd hassling them for cases owing to his boredom.”

“They weren't asking about Sherlock though, they were asking about John. They've taken more interest in them both now.” Greg said “Sorry if we've ruined your great master plan or something, but John wasn't about to leave Sherlock.”

Mycroft reached for his tea again, apparently unsure of how to respond. 

“Can we go now?” Greg asked, standing up impatiently and Molly quickly followed.

“I suppose. If you hear anything, let me know. I shall be monitoring the Police.” 

Greg and Molly were about to leave before Greg suddenly decided against it. 

“And if you hear anything, let either me or Molly know. We're not being kept in the dark in this either.” Mycroft nodded before waving them out of the room. It was in at that precise moment that Mycroft officially decided that teenagers were too meddlesome and he didn't like them, but slightly loved them at the same time.

–

The house was silent, save for the occasional beeping of a washing machine or the tumble-dryer, John couldn't quite tell. Maybe it was a two in one.

He rolled over, trying to get comfortable. He was never one to get homesick (the number of times he'd stayed at Greg's, Molly's or Mike's was proof enough of that). Yet somehow, being in his current predicament had managed to pull his mind away from sleep.

He blinked at the digital clock as his eyes tried to focus on the illuminated red numbers. It told him that it was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Once he'd finally located his room and stepped inside someone had locked the door behind him, but he did find a new book propped on the bedside table and a set of new clothes (such as pyjamas) on the now made bed. He'd spent a good while reading the book, and had decided to put it down around midnight, where he finally crawled into bed.

He rolled back onto his other side and squeezed his eye lids shut, but his brain was still at work and was refusing to let him sleep. It was too busy trying to work out what Jim had been on about. He knew what it meant, obviously. He just didn't quite know what it meant. His biological father was alive. He didn't know whether to be excited or shit scared. But then what Jim had said about families receiving justice, and he felt slightly ill at the overall implication of it. After getting worked up over trying to work out what was going on, his mind fell to rest on Sherlock. He wondered whether Sherlock was asleep, and whether he'd been locked in his room too. It was highly likely.

John's eyes flew open as the screech of an alarm ripped through the houses silent surroundings. He quickly leapt out of bed and scuttled towards his shoes, pulling them over his feet and hastily doing up the laces. He could hear shouting now too, loud and echoey, making it difficult to understand what was being said.

He crouched low to the floor, pressing his ear against the gap between the floor and the door, listening intently. He still couldn't decipher what was being said though, until the thundering of footsteps came pelting along the corridor, causing John to pull his ear away quickly for fear of being deafened.

It was good job that he did move his head as quickly as he did though, because a few moments later the door was wrenched open and a very large, muscular man stood in its wake.

"Up." He barked, and John quickly obeyed- not fully understanding what was going on. "Turn." Again, John followed instructions and the moment he'd pivoted 180 degrees his arms were pulled behind his back and a pair of handcuffs were secured around his wrists.

John turned around again just as large arms wrapped themselves around him and pulled him into a fireman's lift.

"What's going on?" He asked as he was jostled about while the man strode through the house.

"Police turned up. Moriarty and Moran are out. Under orders. Keep Sherlock and you hidden." John frowned at the man's inability to form complete sentences.

The Police were here? Surely that was Greg's doing. They'd be able to get out of this wretched place for good. John was grinning.

\--

He ignored the alarm, too wrapped up in his cocoon of bedsheets to move. Someone would silence it soon though and then he'd be able to continue the beautiful transformation to morning-Sherlock. The one that was probably most disliked amongst members of the house.

However, the alarm didn't stop, and Sherlock quickly realised that it was one of Jim's many burglar alarms. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, but still not bothering to get out of bed. It would be over soon.

He'd been sleeping in a plain light brown t-shirt, and pin-striped dark and light blue pyjama bottoms, and was saturated in the warmness of his bed, and had no desire to find out what the commotion was all about. He did however wonder quietly to himself how John was handling the alarm.

He didn't have to wait long to find out it turned out, as his door burst opened and a boisterous man who Sherlock knew as Pete stormed into the room, with a smirking John flung over his shoulder.

"Hello." John said cheerily, his waving at Sherlock was made difficult owing to his position, and the handcuffs. He awkwardly raised his elbow and flapped it around like a chicken. Sherlock managed to extract his own arm and waved back.

Pete then dumped John onto the floor, before turning back to the door and slamming it shut.

"Out." He beckoned for Sherlock to relieve himself from the coil of bedsheets. Sherlock just continued lying down, earning himself a grin from John. But he figured that if they were locked in anyway, why would he have to get up? "Now."

Sherlock looked back towards John, who nodded. Sherlock could see that John knew something, so he did as John told him. Not what Pete had ordered.

After the handcuffs were put back on (only this time behind his back, Pete apparently wasn't as trusting as Sebastian), Sherlock was thrown back onto the floor beside John, face pressed against the carpet.

"Nice of you to join me." He grinned. Sherlock sighed in a pleasant tone before readjusting himself so that he was perched on his bum rather than his face. Pete meanwhile took to standing resolutely at the door, keeping guard.

"We can talk." Sherlock said, nudging John's shoulder with his own. "He's deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other. Not to mention he's also incredibly thick." John's grin broadened, but then it fell.

"It's the Police. I think Mycroft might have..." John realised what he'd said and his eyes widened.

"Who?" Sherlock asked. John knew who Mycroft was? He didn't want to come across as too desperate.

"Mycroft... He... Shit." John hung his head, but Sherlock kept pestering him.

"John? Mycroft who?"

"Mycroft Holmes... He... Fuck it. I'm in shit with him anyway. He'll be really anyway if Greg's gone to him..." He trailed away, frowning at the floor. After a few seconds of silence, he took a sharp intake of breath and steeled himself before talking, and Sherlock was peering at him anxiously.

"When you saw my step-father, I got a text asking me what I knew of you." John laughed lightly. "Such a pretentious sod. Anyway, then the guy showed up at my house. Shit Sherlock, I'm probably the wrong person to be telling you this..."

Sherlock shrugged, shaking his head slightly  urging John to continue.

"He asked me if I knew someone called William-" Sherlock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, which John noticed. "You know something about William?" Sherlock gulped. 

"I know... Of him. I asked once and it... It didn't go down to well." John's face contorted to one of sympathy.

"I can imagine... Sherlock, I really don't think I should be telling you this. Someone else should. I'm hopeless." John shook his head.

"No. Please John, just tell me. Right now the only person I trust is you." Sherlock's eyes met John's and John buckled under how desperate they were.

"Mycroft is your brother." John said simply, watching as Sherlock opened his mouth and rested his head against the wall behind him. "He works for MI6." John watched his friend, waiting for the sudden influx of questions but they didn't come, so he continued. "He's been trying to get you back for ages, ever since you were taken-" John stopped again.

"Taken?" Sherlock asked, snapping his head up again. John nodded meekly.

"Hmhm. Moriarty kidnapped you from your-" John cleared his throat and put on a voice attempting to mimic Mycroft's "- family estate when you were nine. I only found out about it on Saturday. After Sebastian dislocated my knee Mycroft told me I wasn't allowed to get involved with you anymore." He stopped, but Sherlock glared at him to continue. "Then I got a text from your number, but I knew it wasn't you because it wasn't the way you type. Have you ever written 'lol' in a text before?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Didn't think so. It asked me whether I wanted to meet up with you at twelve o'clock, I knew it was a trap, but I couldn't have Mycroft just kick me away from this. I needed to make sure that you were okay.

"So I told Mycroft I'd organise a time and he said he'd have all these people ready to pounce when someone showed, but I knew that that wouldn't work because knowing your lot they'd have refused to talk or just not turned up- especially if Mycroft was involved. I told him a time and then organised a different one.

"It was a stupid plan. I mean, really stupid. I'm such a dickhead. Look at us, for fuck's sake. But I wasn't going to leave you here. Mycroft's a really intelligent bloke but he doesn't know you. After he told me to get lost he started to call you William again, only calling you Sherlock because that's what I know you as. William is you, by the way. That's your name. William Sherlock Scott Holmes or something ridiculous like that. I wasn't going to leave you." He paused. "I like you, Sherlock. I really like you, and I've never let a friend down before and I wasn't about to break my streak."

Sherlock sat there, slightly stunned, and at the same time slightly relieved, because now he finally knew and so much made sense.

"Are you okay?" John asked, peering at him. "You've frozen." Sherlock nodded quickly, still not uttering a word. "Would it be weird if I tried to hug you? Because when people are sad my Mum hugs them and you look sad so I think I should hug you."

A small laugh escaped Sherlock's lips.

"No. No it wouldn't." He smiled. "But it might be a bit difficult." John frowned as he remembered the handcuffs.

"I suppose. I'm gonna try something." John cleared his throat, and Sherlock watched interestedly. “Hey, you. Pete, right? You have a lot of nose hair.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but then he realised what John was doing.

“Is that really the best you can do?” He whispered.

“Leave me alone. I don't normally do insults that would cater for this particular breed. I think mine would be a bit too sophisticated for him.” John whispered scornfully back. Sherlock decided to give him a hand.

“Your head looks like a bull's scrotum.” Sherlock supplied. John pulled a face at the thought of what a bull's scrotum would look like, and the way his face portrayed the disgusted emotion created by the image in his mind made Sherlock chuckle. 

“You what?” Pete turned to them now.

“A bull's scrotum.” Sherlock said simply. “You look like one.” John was trying to contain his giggles and was failing miserably. Once he'd stifled them however, he continued. 

“Bull's scrotums aside, your nose hair is truly magnificent. Can I plait it?” Sherlock just gawped at him. “Too far?” John whispered. 

“Little bit.” Sherlock whispered back, but then they both started laughing again. The pair of them somehow managed to send themselves into a giggling fit and Pete just rolled his eyes. 

Suddenly, the door burst open and several Policemen and women burst into the room, Pete was unable to handle so many and was quickly detained. Sherlock and John stopped laughing and both sighed a deep sigh of relief, which also acted as them getting their breath back. A woman crouched down next to them.

“Are you two alright?” They both nodded as someone helped them to their feet. “How many people are here?” John shook his head, not knowing the answer, but, of course, Sherlock knew.

“There's nine here tonight I believe, not including John and I.” The woman nodded, barking the information at someone else. 

“Jones here will escort you both downstairs and into a Police car. You'll both be leaving here as quickly as we can manage.” John and Sherlock muttered their thanks as they were lead from the room, Sherlock casting a backwards glance over his shoulder, finally glad to be leaving. 

Then they were standing outside, Sherlock's mind was slightly fuzzy. He was leaving a large part of himself behind. A whole part of himself. His whole life that he remembered. But now there was the prospect of a new life beckoning to him. He had a brother to torment. A brother who had spent seven years trying to get him back. Maybe he even had parents. Maybe he had friends from before that would still want to know him now. But then he looked over at John. What would happen to John now? His mother was still the alcoholic that she was before, and now the Police were more informed of John, who was to say that social services wouldn't get involved? 

Sherlock was taken away from his thoughts as he started gulping in the crisp night air as it infiltrated their lungs. But it wasn't all that that made him drop his thoughts, it was the deafening sound of a gunshot ripping through the air that helped. 

The man who had been escorting them lay dead on the floor; a trickle of blood seeping into the pebbled driveway. Now there was shouting to match the almighty bang, and Sherlock registered the higher intensity shouting being John's, as many a colourful word fell from his mouth. But Sherlock wasn't paying attention. 

A single bullet hole, in the exact centre of the forehead, from a rifle, going by the noise made. 

That looked awfully like a Sebastian shot. 

Suddenly Sherlock found himself joining in John's yells as another Policeman grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards a Police car, he dumped him inside and shut the door. Where was John?

He peered out of the window and watched on in horror as he saw several of Jim's men wrestling with the Police, and John in the centre of it all. He needed to get to John. 

Using his chin, he pulled the handle and opened the car door, getting out and running back up the drive towards John. Another bang filled the air and Sherlock ducked instinctively, but with his hands tied behind his back he lost balance and fell over. Awkwardly he returned to standing just in time to see a suit clad man picking up John around the middle, and taking off with him. At the same time, someone was doing the same to Sherlock. 

Sherlock yelled out and John's eyes locked with Sherlock's.

“John!” 

“Fucking go! Sherlock! Leave!” John shouted, flailing about madly under the man's grip. None of the Policemen had noticed what was happening with John in their kerfuffle with Jim's men. Only the one who was dragging Sherlock back to the Police car knew what was happening. He tried to calm him down, but Sherlock was having none of it. 

“John!” He continued to yell. “Let go of me! They've got John! Please! John!” He fell over again.

“No, c'mon, son. We're getting you out of here. Someone will be there to help John.” The man said soothingly as he helped the grappling Sherlock up. 

“No they won't! Please! They're- John!” Sherlock thought his head was about to explode as he caught sight of John being loaded into the back of a black van, and Sebastian turning around smirking straight at him. Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to scream or cry or punch someone. Sebastian had thrown John into the van and had grinned at Sherlock. His hatred for the man increased ten-fold. 

“John! Please! No!” Sherlock continued yelling, panic washing over the anger as the van did a wheel spin and took off down the drive, taking John with it. 

“Please...” The van was gone, and Sherlock found himself lying on the floor, being pulled up by the same Policeman as before. He couldn't stand. He felt sick. He allowed himself to be directed towards the Police car before dissolving entirely.


	14. Van

"Get off me!" John yelled, kicking and writhing within the muscular arms that hoisted him into the air. He heard Sherlock shouting him, and he caught a quick glance at a very panicked, very white Sherlock looking horror stricken, trying to claw his way over through the thicket of the police battle.

"John!" He heard Sherlock. Sherlock had a chance to get away... And John would be damned if he prevented him from it.

"Fucking go! Sherlock! Leave!" John called, too desperate for Sherlock to get away to realise who then man was. He was sure Sherlock was calling him, but with the raucous created by the battle between Police and Jim's men, it was difficult to hear. He just hoped and prayed that Sherlock had understood. 

"Shh... Calm down." Sebastian cooed into John's ear, and John flailed around in the man's arms. His eyes widened as his mode of transport came into view. "In you get." Sebastian threw John into the black van, and the doors behind him slammed shut. But he wasn't alone in the van.

John caught a quick glimpse of the leering man before the cotton bag was thrown over his head. 

He yelled, and felt himself falling over as the van pulled away. His arms had been tied behind his back the whole time, owing to the Pete bloke, but now John started to panic further as he felt his ankles being bound together too. He was blind and immobile as he felt the van turn out of the driveway.

\--

“Shh... Calm down...”

He could hear someone talking, but his complete disinterest prevented him from actually listening to what they were saying. All he knew was that the police car's heating was on, the window that the back of his head was pressed against was cold, the woman talking to him was an idiot, and that John had been kidnapped. Again.

He unfurled himself from his foetus like position, which had been facing the boring woman, and turned to face the steam clouded window. The lights of London whizzed past in an orange blur, but the rest of the city was obscured owing to the now departing fogginess of the window.

“Come on, it's okay...” The woman placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It would have been comforting gesture, had it not been for his severe panic. He flinched the moment she pressed down, and swivelled himself around on the chair again back to face her. She looked confused, but was attempting a smile nonetheless.

“This is...” She sighed, apparently trying to find the right words. Sherlock blinked at her. He wasn't blinking back the tears which were threatening to tumble down his face. They were just a bit itchy. That was all. “He was your friend, right?” She asked. Sherlock sunk down lower in his chair, bringing his knees to his chin in the process and wrapping his arms around him. He nodded into his knee-caps.

What was John, really though? They'd only known each other a few days, but it felt like he'd known him for an eternity. He was the only one who'd ever shown him any interest, all except for Molly of course. But Molly had never risked herself for him, while John had. John was strong, and brave, and all the things that Sherlock could never be. He had found out about Sherlock's predicament, and ended up wanting to help him. Even after he'd stolen his apron. He'd spent a day hanging out with him, before any of the major problems had even started. Sherlock was rubbish at making friends. He was essentially a sociopath. John had changed that. Within just a few days John had come along and made Sherlock actually care about another human being. Not in the same way he had cared for Jim and Sebastian. He'd only cared about them because there was no one else for him to care about, and even then he was always unsure as to whether his level of concern for their wellbeing was reciprocated. 

John had broken that spell of uncertainty. When he was with John, he no longer felt like a tumbleweed plant. Just bouncing around about flat landscape, completely lost and only following the direction that the wind took him in. John was the new breeze that pushed him towards the next puddle of water. He wasn't lost when John was around. He could think straight.

“William, isn't it?” The woman said, extending her had. Sherlock rubbed his eyes on his knees before straightening himself up against the backrest and extending his own hand.

“Sherlock.” He corrected, and the woman smiled.

“That's an interesting name.” She said it politely, but it caused a hitherto unknown string in Sherlock to snap.

“You don't know the half of it.” He muttered bitterly.

“I should say I know a lot less than that. Do you want to tell me? It might be good to get it all off your chest before you start being questioned.” She smiled warmly. Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “I'll take all the insults, too, so that the poor bastard who has to quiz you doesn't get to suffer them.” Sherlock grinned. Whoever he ended up talking to was indeed in for a belting. 

“Who are you?”

“My name's Mary, and I work with Mr Holmes.” 

\--

Through the torment of plain white rooms that always came with specialised hospitals, Sherlock had eventually managed to come to an agreement with himself. The agreement being that he'd only communicate with another person if they seemed likely to help John. Although so far that list was at about three. He'd been surprised when Molly had come running into the room and flung her arms around his neck, and then he'd been introduced to some guy named Greg who was apparently John's friend.

He'd spoken to them at around eight o'clock in the morning, just after the doctor's strenuous battle in attempting to give Sherlock a sedative to help him sleep. They'd put some cream on his ankle, as the skin around it was quite sore from where the shocker had been. After that however (and incidentally the same time when someone had come in bringing tea), Sherlock had thrown a tantrum, demanding that they stop wasting time on him when while they continued to fuss; John was still in danger. They'd pulled back eventually, leaving Sherlock alone to ponder that nights events and to drink his tea in peace. 

However, his somewhat troublesome, somewhat relaxing silence was not carried out for long, as a new man entered the room. Sherlock had been sitting on the floor in the corner, not wanting the comfort of the bed, the chair, or even the stool. He just wanted John.

"You look ill." Mycroft said, allowing the door to shut behind him. Sherlock scowled.

"Irrelevant."

Mycroft frowned, and sat down at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

"We're doing everything we can for John." Mycroft sighed.

"Well it's obviously not enough.” Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Oh come on, you've spent seven years monitoring me. Surely you must have learned that nothing gets done if you just sit on your backside. You should be charging into battle right now and rescuing him. He's not safe." Sherlock brought his knees up slightly so that his legs were in an arch, and rested his elbows on them, using his arm as a support for his head. He looked thoughtfully at his older brother, but Mycroft could still detect the seeping hatred in the innocent stare.

"We're not soldiers, Wil- Sherlock." Mycroft corrected himself. 

"Don't bother." Sherlock waved his previous head-supporter hand in the air. "I'm William. I get it." Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

"So you know who I am?"

"I know enough."

"Like what?"

"Like...” Sherlock straightened himself up, still using the innocent expression as a mask “You're a pathetic excuse for a brother who sat on the sidelines while I got beaten up for asking simple questions like: 'Who's William?'. You sat there and watched me be used; you watched me forget everything about a life I once had. Let me delete a past life. I'm glad I forgot, come to think of it. I'm glad that my life isn't full of the incompetence that is you."

If this were a situation happening to another human being, they'd more than likely be close to tears. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt Sherlock's eyes scrutinise him, the currently cold, calculating orbs taking in every single significant detail. There were no tears in those eyes, not anymore, at least.

"I couldn't... It wasn't..." Mycroft was at a loss of what to say. "You don't know Moriarty."

Sherlock snorted.

“Wrong choice of words. You don't understand, William. He... He's not a very nice person.” Sherlock laughed at the inept description. “Our mother and father had something going on with him, some form of bribery, I expect. They were exceedingly wealthy, and were very well respected within the British Government. I don't fully know the nature of what was going on, but it appears that one day Moriarty had finally had enough, and broke in. I awoke to shouting, and found mother and father cornered in their room. Moran was... He was pointing a knife at the both of them, and you were standing behind him, yelling at him.

“You started threatening him, little you could threaten him with, mind you. Such funny insults. I believe at one stage you called him a 'bull's scrotum'.” Mycroft chuckled to himself, but Sherlock shifted uneasily. “Anyway, he no longer saw our parents to be of any interest and turned to you, instead. You saw me during your mad dash and pushed me into a cupboard... You shoved a broom against it so that I couldn't get out - which I wasn't best pleased about - before you continued sprinting around the house. I'm unsure as to what happened after that, but I managed to free myself and found your room to be blood soaked and trashed. 

“Our parents were in there, both bleeding profusely. I called an ambulance and the police, but they died a few days later. It wasn't... You were my number one priority, William. You have to know that. I was sixteen. There's only so much you can do at sixteen years old, as you may well know. I finished my education, and worked hard to gain the same level of respect within the government that our mother and father had. I then started to dissect Moriarty's network to the best of my abilities.

“I was slow. Very slow. You were nine... You were nine and you managed to put me in a cupboard to keep me safe. You managed to extend our parents' live by a short amount. I owe you so much. I'm so sorry.”

Mycroft was now looking at the floor, while Sherlock was sitting slightly stunned on the floor. After a very long and slightly awkward silence, Sherlock eventually spoke.

“So...” Mycroft lifted his head. 

“So?”

“So you owe me a favour.” Sherlock's eyes were twinkling as he spoke. Mycroft didn't like that new sparkle, but he had to keep to his word.

“... Yes.” Sherlock leapt to his feet, and clapped his hands together, apparently finding a new lease on life.

“Great! I want you to get John.” 

Mycroft rubbed his forehead wearily, scowling at the request.

“William... We're doing everything we can.” 

“It's not enough. You said you owe me. I saved your life, now it's time for you to save John's.” Sherlock beamed proudly. Mycroft sighed. He needed to go to bed, he needed to sleep, and he needed his younger brother to stop twittering on about saving John, especially when it might not be something that he'd be able to promise the result of. “What?” Sherlock asked, his face dropping slightly as he read Mycroft's.

“There are raids currently being carried out in all manor of places. We're not being idle with this. Scotland Yard and MI6 are both working together to try and-” 

“Raids?” Sherlock interrupted. “What type of raids?”

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair before talking again.

“We've received a video.” He said finally. 

“A video?” 

“Yes. Narrated by Moran. It's not... He's not hurt.”

The words 'He's not hurt' hit Sherlock as though he'd been stung by a thousand wasps. He blinked at Mycroft, unseeing. What could lead Mycroft to say that someone wasn't hurt? That would imply that something bad was happening to them... Sherlock gulped.

“Can I watch it?” He asked, suddenly, and taking Mycroft back somewhat.

“I don't think that would be-”

“I don't care. I've lived with those two morons for seven years. I know them, sort of. I can work out their tactics. I might even know where they are. John Watson is my friend. This is happening to him because of me. You feel like you owe me? This is how you repay me. Let me in on this case.”

Mycroft sighed.

“I suppose...” Before he could finish however, Sherlock had taken off out of the room.

–

That was bump number 14... Or maybe 15... He'd lost count. He'd attempted to count how many times they'd turned a corner, but then they'd encountered several roundabouts and he could of sworn they'd made a u-turn somewhere along the line, so he decided that it wasn't worth the effort. 

Despite his situation, John wasn't worried, he'd actually calmed down considerably since the beginning of their journey. He was a bit startled, yes. Annoyed? Even more so. But he relished himself in the idea that because he was being taken, Sherlock had managed to leave that awful place behind, and was now (hopefully) in the hands of Mycroft. Although now he came to think about it, that might not be such a good thing. He was just glad for the fact that he wouldn't be there when they had their reconciliation. 

The van ground a sudden halt, and John felt himself slide across the floor as the brakes were applied. He'd been moving around whenever the van took a corner too quickly, which had been a reoccurring event throughout most of the journey. 

He heard the front doors of the van open, and then slam shut again. The crackle of gravel could be heard working it's way around the exterior of the van, until they reached the back and the doors clicked open. John felt his whole body tense up as a strikingly cold breeze infiltrated the van. Strong hands grabbed him by the ankle, and he attempted to kick whoever it was but failed in his floundering state. 

Once the man had successfully put John into a fireman's lift, John felt himself being carried. His nostrils were full of the disgusting scent he always found lingering at the bottom of his Nan's backgarden. Maybe he was there? Maybe he was at his Nan's house and she'd invite him in for tea and custard creams and – no. That was stupid. He wasn't at his Nan's. But he could smell compost. Most definitely. 

He hated not being able to see, but he believed that if he concentrated hard enough, he'd be able to gain a rough idea as to what was going on. However, he wished he hadn't been yearning to listen as the an Irish accent wafted into his eardrum. His stomach clenched.

“Where's Sherlock?”

“'E was in a police car, boss. We couldn' geh 'im.”

John heard Moriarty sigh.

“Put him there, then. I trust you knocked him out?”

“Urgh, no.”

“You're lucky I don't slice your head off, scoop out what little insides there are and give it to your mother as a vase.” Moriarty spat. John wanted to be disgusted, but the image it painted in his mind was more comical than anything, and he snorted in a meagre attempt to stifle a laugh. Despite his situation, he was still rather giggly from his mockery session with Sherlock. 

“Would you like me to do that to you, Johnny?” Moriarty asked, and John heard the source of the voice ebb closer.

“Can if you like.” He did the best he could to shrug. “It would be a waste though. She's never really been one for flowers.”

Moriarty laughed.

“Oh this is going to be fun.”


	15. Concrete

There was something oddly disconcerting about being blind and immobile at the same time, and after what felt like several hours spent dwelling over the situation, John came to the conclusion that he didn't like it at all.

There were a number of factors that had to be accounted for in John's wholehearted hatred. 

For one, the stench of the place had bypassed his nose entirely now, and was instead deciding to kick up a fuss with his digestive system. 

His stomach was gurgling and groaning in protest of the stench, and John was half expecting himself to wretch in the bag at any given moment. Which probably wouldn't have helped the situation.

There was also his position to consider. He couldn't exactly say that he hated chairs. In fact, sometimes he found them quite nice. Especially comfy arm chairs that a person could sink into. John liked those types of chairs. What he didn't like however were wooden ones that were too high for his feet to touch the ground, so instead they were tied separately, one to each of the front legs of the chair. His previously dislocated knee was starting to ache, and he was longing to stretch it. The doctor had instructed him to keep it as straight as possible, but so far John hadn't exactly been doing a great job at that. The last day or so had put so much strain on his knee, and it was at last starting to show. His hands were tied behind the back of the chair.

The fact that John couldn't get a proper gage on how high he was in the air caused him to grow slightly anxious, too. He knew that the chair wasn't particularly high, and that his feet were only a couple of inches off of the ground, but being blindfolded caused the mind to start playing tricks on itself. 

At one point, John had fully believed that he was sitting atop the Eiffel Tower, then logic kicked in and he realised that it was a stupid idea. Nevertheless however, he was starting to panic.

John hadn't a clue of how long he'd been sitting there, but he decided to remain optimistic. How, he had no idea. His brain was trailing off in all sorts of weird and wonderful directions, and a small, very minute part of him was actually enjoying the peace.

His mind wandered from one topic to the next. At first trying to work out where he was, but he gave up on that pretty quickly.

Thinking about it only made it worse, and he started to imagine concrete cellars with moss clumped in bunches along trickles of water that ran down the walls. Next he started to imagine a particularly nasty part of one of his Nick Clarke books, in which Nick had been supported in a torture chamber. That thought made the sweat drenched hairs on the back of John's neck to stand on end; he stopped thinking about it.

His next line of inquiry therefore was Sherlock. Sherlock Brooke. William Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. No matter what he was called, John couldn't help but worry like a mother over her child going to school for the first time. He was absolutely desperate to hear some news about or from Sherlock. Had he gotten out okay? Where was he now? Was he trying to find him?

Despite John's wishes that Sherlock would burst in, snapping snarky comments at people and being the glamorously rude guy he was, John felt that his head would actually pop if Sherlock dared to return into the reach of Moriarty. Not after he'd worked so hard to find out more about the guy who he'd met at the police station. He actually thought that if Sherlock did show up, he'd punch him for being so stupid.  
But there it was. Sherlock wasn't stupid. He was one of the most intelligent people John had ever had the sincere pleasure of meeting. He would be damned if he'd ever let a brain like that come into danger, especially after the somewhat dysfunctional life he'd been living.

John's ears pricked up at the sound of a door opening, and he turned his head in the direction of it. The bag was pulled from over his head, and he blinked wildly as his eyes adjusted to the new light, which was dazzling and bright.

"Morning Johnny." He heard Sebastian say, but he didn't offer a reply as he bowed his head trying to force his eyes to adjust. “It's bright in here, isn't it?”

John muttered something under his breath, which caused Sebastian to smirk.

“Are you going to smile?” Sebastian asked. John could practically hear the mockery in his voice as he spoke. It oozed with false cheeriness.

“I suppose so. It's hard to keep a straight face while looking at a face like yours. It reminds of that time I went to the zoo.” John quipped. Sebastian laughed, but it was hollow. John finally looked up to see what was apparently a fog light staring him in the face. No wonder it was so bright. 

The fog light caused the otherwise completely grey room to light up white, and John was able to get a better understanding as to what kind of situation he was in.

The light was perched directly in front of him, and as a result he couldn't see behind it. Leading up to it however was a concrete floor that was splattered with dark brown droplets. Something inside John twinged as he realised what the droplets were, and his stomach churned. This room was no stranger to violence.

“You gonna smile for the camera then or what?” Sebastian's voice cut above the silence that had filled John's ears. He couldn't focus on regaining his eyesight and focus on whatever the wretch of a man was telling him, after all.

“Camera?” John quizzed, confused. He'd lost all sight of Sebastian now; he'd disappeared behind the light and into the darkness behind.

“Yep. We're sending it to your boyfriend. Say hi!” 

John furrowed his brows. “Hello boyfriend, please feel free to introduce yourself. I wasn't aware I had a boyfriend. It might be nice to get to know you some time.” He tried. He wasn't sure where to look, so he focused on a spot just below the light source to prevent it from getting into his eyes. 

“You're both as sarcastic as each other,” Sebastian snorted. John merely scowled. “Do you know where you are, John?”   
He could hazard a guess. He could hazard a thousand guesses. A secret bunker, perhaps? Maybe even a dungeon underneath a castle. That would be fascinating. Yet, did archaic castles have concrete rooms? John highly doubted it. So he shrugged. 

“Haven't the foggiest. Care to enlighten me?” He prompted. Sebastian came out from behind the shadow he'd been hiding in to reveal his face. He was supporting an old CamCorder on his shoulder, and was grinning as he pointed it at John. He ignored John's question entirely.

“We used to use this video camera for Sherlock, you know.” He started walking around the room while John trailed him anxiously. They were bringing Sherlock into this? Sherlock wasn't here. Sherlock had escaped. John had yelled for him to escape. He'd made sure of it. Hadn't he?

“I have so many videos on here... Some good, some bad. Do you want to see them?” Sebastian asked politely. It was almost as though he was a doting grandma who wanted to show an unwitting grandchild old photographs. John shook his head.

“These are all Jim has of Sherlock now. These video tapes. See,” Sebastian was now dangerously close to John now, who had his back pressed against the chair, willing himself to put as much distance between him and Sebastian as possible. “Originally, you were just another tool. Another way of coaxing money out of another poor sod.” John arched his eyebrow.

“We've had our eyes on you for a while Johnny Boy,” Sebastian continued, “stopping the Police from listening to you about Mr Jones. Do you know how much trouble that would have caused us? If an investigation was carried out? You're persistent though, I'll give you that. What was that, your twentieth attempt? I commend you, Johnny, I really do. But on that crucial twentieth attempt you happened to bump into the little Saint Sherlock. How you captivated him John. How you captivated him...”

John blinked. They'd been counting? He was flattered. 

“And so you stumbled into his path again. Honestly, he stole your apron. You really aren't picky, are you? Honestly, Jim didn't have a problem with Sherlock meeting you. There was nothing to be concerned about. But then you found that letter, and suddenly he was infatuated. Completely and utterly. Trying to work out who Mr Jones was... He was obsessed. You created danger for Sherlock, John. He could be living a perfectly happy life if you hadn't stumbled into it.”

Sebastian was now pointing the camera directly into John's face. John's face remained resolute. He was determined not to be guilt-tripped by Sebastian, and one of the things that John prided himself on above all else was his determination. So he played a new card.

“Excuse you,” he started, “I'm the one who created danger for Sherlock? I don't think so. And you can shove that perfectly happy life where the sun doesn't shine. You're the one who kidnapped him, remember? When did that happen? Seven years ago? Don't try to blame any of this on me. Things have spiralled out of control for you and you can't handle it. Correct me if I'm wrong.” 

Bravery wasn't something that John had really associated himself with before, but right now he could feel it coursing through his veins. Sebastian was just a pathetic excuse for a man with no ambition in life other than to taunt anyone smaller than himself. John felt decidedly brave, despite being tied to a chair.

“I can see why Sherlock liked you.” Sebastian said, smirking. John's frown deepened. “And I'm not blaming this solely on you. He always had a particular knack for attracting trouble. He was a waste of talent. I'm glad he's gone, if I'm honest.”

That's when John's breath caught in his throat. Sebastian was referring to Sherlock in the past tense. But that would mean...

“Jim was devastated. The Policeman's bullet shot straight past one of the lone thugs who got involved and straight into his chest.”

John grit his teeth. It wasn't... It didn't make sense. 

“Why... Why did you ask me to say hello to him, then?”

If it was possible, the world surrounding John crumbled further into debris and dust. He'd just called Sherlock his boyfriend. He'd just... He waved it away. That was just Sebastian poking fun. He didn't mean it. Sherlock wasn't his- he couldn't be his boyfriend. They'd known each other a week, for God's sake. Sebastian's lip was curling, also realising what John had said.

“He's not dead.” John said firmly. Hoping to change the subject, and he was grateful to Sebastian for obeying. 

“Do you want to tell that to Jim? He's the one who had to identify the body, after all. Don't think he'd take too kindly to it though, do you?” 

Over the course of the conversation John's frown had taken varying forms. From confused, to angry, and now it had settled on truly devastated. He couldn't be sure about whether Sebastian was lying or not. All he could do was pray that he was.

“I'll leave you to mourn.” Sebastian said quietly, slamming the CamCorder shut and patting John lightly on the shoulder. John didn't watch him as he left, but the sound of the door slamming told him that he had.

–

Sherlock was staring. Wide eyed and fixated at the laptop screen. Greg was yelling. Molly was trying to calm him down. It was all white noise. 

“I knew it! I knew you two! Bloody hell!”

“Greg! Shut up! Did you pay attention to anything in that video?”

“I knew there was something going on between them!”

Greg was far too ecstatic about what John had insinuated between him and Sherlock that he was relatively unaware of what was going on around him. As such, Molly carefully showed him from the room, muttering sincere apologies to both Mycroft and Sherlock, as well as scolding Greg for his childishness. 

Sherlock had been sitting on the floor with his legs folded and the laptop in front of him. Greg and Molly had been sitting on either side, but now they were gone he fell lazily onto his back, scowling at the ceiling.

“What're they doing?” He asked, and Mycroft was unsure as to whether it was rhetorical or directed at him.   
“They're trying to guilt you into doing something.” 

Sherlock frowned. He hated sitting around and doing nothing. More to the point, he hated the fact that John was in danger, because of him. What had he been playing at, suggesting that they were 'together'? It didn't make sense and Sherlock was practically livid with him for it.

"What do they want though?" He asked, running and hand through his hair and taking a deep sigh. Mycroft hesitated before answering.

"We don't know. They sent me this video. There was no message attached to it. We trying to sort through possible locations, but it's near impossible."

Sherlock's scowl deepened as Mycroft stood up. There was so much to think about. Why has Sebastian told John that he was dead? He obviously wasn't dead, and where was Jim? Sebastian's words had hit home somewhat, despite Sherlock's best intentions.

Was Jim really devastated that he'd gone? No. No he wasn't. Sebastian said that Jim was devastated about Sherlock's death. Sherlock wasn't dead. But he didn't want Jim to feel bad. Not after everything they'd been through together. No matter how much he hated and loathed the man, he didn't want him to be hurt. He wanted to comfort Jim almost as much as he wanted to comfort John. Sherlock hated himself for it.

He stood up and made his way towards the door. Mycroft followed him the whole way.

"Where are you going?" He asked, leaning against his umbrella.

"Where's my coat? Don't pretend you don't have it. You've ransacked that whole house. All my belongings are somewhere. So coat and scarf, where?" 

Mycroft sighed.

"Your coat and scarf are in your room along with some other items of clothing. Everything else is back at my apartment. Where are you going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything as left the room, only waving back towards Mycroft who pinched the bridge of his nose before sending off texts to inform people that Sherlock was moving around. 

\--

"Sherlock?" Sherlock groaned as Molly's voice flowed along the corridor. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get John." Sherlock replied curtly. "Don't tell Mycroft, he'll only get in the way." Just then, Greg came bounding around the corner. 

"You're going by yourself?" Molly queried, confused.

"Yep." 

"Where's he going?" Greg asked, joining in the conversation late. He was looking in between Sherlock and Molly. 

"He's going to get John." Molly sighed, sad eyes peering at Sherlock.

"Right." Greg clasped his hands together. "When are we leaving?" Both Molly and Sherlock stared at him incredulously.

"Well he's not going by himself, are you?" He looked pointedly at Sherlock. He was frowning at Greg's enthusiasm.

"Look, Sebastian is dangerous... John's already in danger because of me. I don't want that to be mirrored onto you two."   
He averted his eyes to the floor, and Molly did the same. Greg on the other hand was gawping at Sherlock.

"Well, John's my mate. I'm good at getting him out of trouble. It's pretty much my high school career. I'm coming." Greg broke the silence only to have it cover them all in a blanket again.

"I'm coming too." Molly muttered. 

Sherlock and Greg both blinked at her.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock questioned. Molly rolled her eyes at the two teenage boys in front of her.

"I'm coming with you. John's my friend too, Sherlock, and Greg's as well. I don't know what's going on between you two-"

"There's nothing going on!" Sherlock protested, but Molly cut him off.

"- but we're coming." She finalised.  
Something about the way that both Greg and Molly were looking at him told him that to argue would be to take part in a battle he wouldn't win. So he decided to accept them on their offer, or rather a demand.

"Let me just get my coat..." He growled, and Molly and Greg exchanged happy looks before following the taller of the three down the corridor.


End file.
